Comes all the way from Austin, Texas, where Benjamin Westney is studying to get his License to Kill with the Cello.
Tiger?
Tiger, Tiper, Tiple, Taple.
Saple, Sapple, Scapple, Scrapple.
Would we giggle if we heard
that Scrapple Woods just needs this ‘bird’
to win the U.S. Open Major Title?
Would little girls read "Scrapple Beat"
to gaze at glossy pics replete
with hunky studs from teenie-bopper movies?
And what of movies on the screen?
Would "Crouching Scrapple…" still be seen
by everybody five times in the theater?
Would Siegfried still have prayed for Roy
when he became a scrapple toy?
I tell you, friends, it doesn’t really matter.
For scrapples are a fearsome bunch,
who’d just as soon have us for lunch
than ponder on the meaning of their label.
It’s best for us to do the same,
and worry not about the name
of nature’s stalking, killing, striped creatures!
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3 comments:
jimmy just put a tiger-containing poem up too. i think you should commandeer it. :)
Yet Another Tiger Poem:Golf is Flog Spelled BackwardsI play my pestilential game
Without a single speck of shame.
I hack my way around the course
With absolutely no remorse.
The fairways, I have rarely seen —
I struggle once I’m on the green.
My drives will hook, or maybe slice.
They do not follow my advice.
My shots all seek the woods and water.
They do not travel where they orter.
O, I’d forgo all worldly goods
If I could play like Tiger Woods
For just one game. ’Tis not to be;
I guess I’ll have to play like me.
Rock it Westney, rock it.
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