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What’s going on here I yelled to my wife,
This is the worst year of my fast-aging-life.
The pandemic for sure provides reasons to worry,
The elections, the weather, my mind has gone blurry.

2020 ‘s a stinker, we can’t argue that,
With my new covid workout my muscles are flat.
Restaurants are closed and so are the bars,
But we’re still sending rockets to both moon and to Mars.

We all walk around in a mask covered haze,
What of the good times, can we recapture those days?
They say there’s a cure and we can’t give up hope,
So, I just keep on checking, my old Horoscope.

Holidays are coming so the calendar shows,
No presents to give with their paper and bows.
Kids still love Santa and they hold spirits on high,
Let’s follow their lead and let negativity die.

It won’t be the same, but we can’t give it up,
Hang up some old lights and drink an eggnog-filled-cup.
Be strong for your friends, remember family above,
Hug and kiss those you can, and send the world lot’s of love.

When men and women go to bed, there are problems to be seen,
Men have little habits sure, but women can be down right mean.
They come to bed in funny gowns and curlers on their heads,
But nothing can prepare these men for cold butts in their beds.

Who made the rules about derrieres, and what their temps should be,
98.6 for him while hers is minus three.

It’s just not their rears that cause the tears, They’re cold from head to toes,
And who can stand a juicy kiss from under a stone-cold nose?
Their hands it seems are bloodless to and frozen to the tips,
But nothing comes close to the chill from the spot right behind the hips.

Electric blankets have been used to try and warm these parts,
But only men can do the job with their warming… hearts.
So, if a man is found one mourn frozen stiff and as Lead,
He was doing his job as all we should, Warming Cold Butts in Bed.

When it comes to fashion, men are out to lunch.
They don’t have a clue, a thought, or even a half-baked hunch.
When the weather gets real hot and the asphalt turns to goo,
Men look for short and tight and hate a dress called Muu.

Guys say the dress is strange and oh so large and baggy,
And women who wear them out, must be somehow haggy.
But these are men in checkered shirts who have had too many beers,
Whose belts have slipped and pants have dipped exposing flabby rears.

The Muu Muu is made for comfort sure with its soft lines flowing,
It can’t help but feel good in there, with summer breezes blowing.
A Muu Muu’s design is all its own with flashing colors bright,
And if the wind picks up enough the owner might take flight.

Men have discarded the beautiful Muu as just an ugly fad,
And this decision they stand by, makes me very sad.
For it’s not the dress that they should see with its colors died,
But the gorgeous women wearing them, Standing there inside.

I was a young boy of eight, who just couldn’t wait,
For Santa to come and not be too late.
So, I climbed on the roof with a broom in my hand,
To clean out the chimney, but as I started to stand,
I stepped on a tile and slipped with my shoe,
I dropped the broom down and it got stuck in the flue.

I was afraid to tell Dad, I was afraid he’d be mad,
That he’d yell at me loud, and say I was bad.
But I knew what was coming later that night,
I didn’t sleep well from fear and from fright.

But then came the sounds of those hooves on the roof,
Soon it would follow the proof of my goof.
There was silence around for too long a time,
I started to think I was losing my mind.

But then came the screams from our dark living room,
There’s no secret now; Santa found our old broom.
He was hanging right there in front of a us all,
Six inches away from a slamming bang fall.

He laughed and he giggled and he looked right at me,
He asked if I’d help him get his feet free.
He stayed for a while, but with his sleigh had to zoom,
He left lots of nice gifts but he took the old broom.

As the night ended well, I felt awed wonderstruck,
It was the best Christmas of all, The Night Santa Got Stuck.

In the morning hours when dawn breaks morning light,
I stumble to the bathroom, and have a sudden fright.
It’s there I see, in all her glory, the woman in my life,
And I can tell as day begins there’s going to be some strife.

She found the tube of toothpaste which didn’t really please her,
You see, she rolls the tube right up, while I’m a manly squeezer.
She holds the tube in her right hand and asks what this could be,
She’s looking for a straight answer, which she won’t get from me.

I say “you’re looking fine for such and early hour,”
She shakes the tube again in her unclenching power.
Again, she asks, “what’s happened here to this my favorite tube?
I giggle twice, and shrug a lot, like some embarrassed boob.

I can tell it’s not going well, she’s beginning to really fume,
I better come up with the perfect words before I reach my doom.
I say, “a funny thing occurred, the sink it had a clog,
While I was working just for you, the tube was stepped on by the dog.”

To tell the tale I used a voice so true and bright and chipper,
It upset her so she squeezed the tube which splattered on her slipper.
So always be a roller and try and please your spouse,
Or be like me, a lonely man, living in the poodle’s house.

Down through the ages from time onto time,
One type of food has been badgered, maligned.
The Weenie it seems has gotten bad raps,
From weird food to bad food for the dog it’s just scraps.

But I’m here to say that the Weenie is strong,
Not some quiche or pate, but slender and long.
Full of proteins and nutrients and good stuff like that,
Wrapped in a skin that offers no fat.

It’s a marvel this Weenie, a wonderful sight,
For the Weenie to live I’ll offer to fight.
Some call it dog and some call it frank,
Some say it’s gross and smelly and rank.

But today is its day to be on top of the hill,
To hiss and to sizzle right there on our grill.
For as long as I live, I’ll be loyal to thee,
I’ll stand strong and erect, just my Weenie and me.