Your porcine, puffed shirt
Wrestled free from your slacks,
That sagged like drenched sails
From your blubbery ass.
I must have been masked
By my thorough disgust,
For you cut right before me
to pay for your lunch.
Shocked numb by malodor,
I could not remark.
Count this poem as revenge,
You gooey bismark.
And should we meet again for our calorie fix
KARATE, KARATE, KARATE kicks.

Asparagus: A vegetable that makes your urine stink.
And Grandfather: A urine scented vegetable.
One flaccid when it's steamed too long, or soaked with hollaindaise.
The other stiff when Nurse connects the catheter.
The seasonal Asparagus brings celebrants when ripe.
The nurses gripe when Grandpa's ripe, he's hourly.
Tastebuds mourn the passing of the last spear of the year: Perrenials, you will taste them again.
But Grandpa must remain beneath the soil when he's gone.
Cremate him if it's zombies that you fear.
If your religion stifles that and Grandpa stumbles in
To eat your toes and fingers like green shoots,
Karate kick your zombie Grandpa hard about the head.
At least that's what the comics say to do.

I've been pitching dog shit
In my neighbor's yard of late.
It's my preferred revenge:
Their music is taste rape.
Out thunders Rush and Journey
I've heard Charlie Daniels too.
Since they nix it right at ten o'clock
I'm stuck with tossing poo.
I can't call the police
Because ten's the hour by which
All loud sounds must be muffled.
Plus, the cops will tell who snitched.
I know, you think I'm wimpy.
A yellow little prick.
But I'd rather work discreetly,
Plus, for stress, it does the trick.
Sure, you toss a pile of dog logs,
Chocolate Cheetohs or fudge swirl.
Aim for walkways, vents or lawn chairs,
Filthify their blaring world.
I know I'm doing right
I will not entertain protests.
Besides, I'm afraid they'll beat me:
Kara-tee nunchaku death.