Author: Ray Romine

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This Is Tomb Much!

The attendant at the station said
My tires MIGHT last a year,
By checking pressure constantly,
By switching front and rear;

By slowing down for curves and such,
By having wheels aligned,
By watching for the nails and glass
That tires are sure to find;

By keeping down to thirty-five,
By no jack-rabbit starts,
By stopping oh-so-gradually
(One of the finer arts).

If following rules like this is all
That will our tires preserve,
I think we’d best get set to walk,
And Back-to-Na ture swerve.

Cars will be so scarce we’ll hear
(If you hate puns you’ll curse)
Theory of the earth-bound Zombie lad:
“MY KINGDOM FOR A HEARSE!”

• • • • • • • • •
When I see the fun. that driving is,
I’m bitter with remorse–
I should’ve foreseen this thing and made
A payment on a horse!

• • • • • • • • •
Driving’s gonna be SUCH fun!
Too little and late, of course,
I’ll take up Richard’s battle cry:
“MY KINGDOM FOR A HORSE!

I’m not unpatriotic, and
It’s not my place to squawk–
But I think I’ll hunt a Junk-man up,
And learn, again, to WALK!

• • • • • • • • •
Now all. these things. may necessary be–
(But walking- sounds S0 SIMPLE now to me!

by Ray Romine Sunday, October 11, 1942

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This Is An Unkind Thought

There is a tavern in the town,
And they dispense the hop there;
But because of one small female’s frown,
I do not often stop there.

The drugstore has my smoke, indeed,
But since it makes her fret less
When I renounce the pleasure-weed,
You find me cigaretteless.

Somehow I think my whopping ton
Of troubles would be weightless,
And the merchants prosper, had this one
Stayed entirely mateless.

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 3, 1952

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This I Made Up Out Of Whole Cloth

Spend a chunk of hard-earned loot,
A hundred bucks, say, for a suit
That has the class, the snap, the zing–
Sharp lapels and lots of swing–
In a fabric which you love;
That fits exactly like a glove,
And who admires the perfect fit?
Who, in fact, will notice it?

by Ray Romine Thursday, July 12, 1951

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This Comparison is Really Odious

At parties I’m never
Resplendent or clever;
My wit doesn’t flicker;
When it comes to liquor ,
I hold myself rationed
To just one old- fashioned .
If it’s questions-and-answers ,
I hunt out the danoers
To be asked when my prancing
was over termed dancing.

So I pick out a girl
Everyone is ignoring
To find out, too late,
It ‘s my hostess I’m boring.

Then in whirs the Wit
Who knows Just what to say;
He is twice-effervescent,
And evor so gay.
He can’t hold a Job–
Or a wifo; and he owes
The Butcher, the Baker.
The wild oats he sows!
He is lacking in character,
Lazy as sin;
And he has lost count
Of the scrapes he’s been in.
Revolting? I’ll say–yet I envy the smarty
The night he turns up as the life of the partyl

by Ray Romine Sunday, January 16, 1949

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This Alone

The Past is gone, its ashes old
Are scattered throughout time .
Its noble deeds, however bold,
Are under silt and slime.

A tombstone cold upon a hill,
A memory in some heart–
My Future, plotted grim and chill,
No comfort does impart.

Perennially, the Present keeps-
A flower Man understands;
And here am I, between two sleeps,
To hold it in my hands.

by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 15, 1947

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Thirty-day Queen

Away with care–erase the frown;
April’s touching field and town.
The grassy plot below the hill
She’s yellowed with the daffodil.
In the creek, glad waters race
Reflections of her laughing face;
Bursting buds and busy birds
Find praise for her, outdoing words.
Happily lilting on her way,
She’s unperturbed by the thought of May!

by Ray Romine Tuesday, April 11, 1950