Thursday, August 20, 2009



My favourite pants are old and worn, but warm from foot to bum.

They’re stained with mustard, ketchup, paint,

And a splash of Navy rum.

The cuffs so badly tattered, they are beyond repair.

The drawstring broke, the waistband slips,

And neighbors stop and stare.

I wear them in the garden, and working on the car,

I wear them out to dinner,

At church and to the bar.

They’re baggy and unsightly, to that I must confess,

But they’re a major part of me,

Without them I’m bereft.

So I’ll wear these sweats forever, and on my tomb inscribe,

‘He never made the best-dressed list,

But had his pants on when he died!’


All day I shuffle ‘round the house

In a ratty pair of slippers.

I sound much like a grounded seal,

Waddling on his flippers.

My mules are poor examples

Of the shoe designer’s art.

They’re unstylish and misshapen,

And the seams in places part.

They’re slightly soiled. Okay, a mess!

Forgive my wardrobe sins.

They’re warm and soft, slip on with ease,

And for slippers that’s what wins.


It can slice and saw, stab and dig,

Clean a trout, skin a pig,

Pop a top, pull a cork,

Use it as a dinner fork.

Bore a hole, turn a screw,

Tighten bolts, mend a shoe,

Open cans, trim the trees,

Pull out slivers, cut the cheese.

Fight off bad guys, help the good.

Make you top-dog in the ‘hood!’

It’s a friend, forever true,

Always keen to work for you.

It may even save your life,

That versatile Swiss Army Knife.


Each day when I get out of bed

I hurry to my desk.

I don’t take time for breakfast,

To shave or even dress.

I bring to life my old PC,

Click on Outlook Express,

And read and transmit email

‘Till other matters press.

Mundane tasks accomplished,

I return to learn what’s new.

I write a bit, surf the net,

And play a game or two.

I pay some bills, order stuff,

Delete a page of spam,

Now it’s time to go to bed,

And dream of DOS and RAM.

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