Owed to a Caulk Gun

 

STICK’EM UP with Liquid Nails

DANGER !  EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE

See Other Caution on Back Panel:

 

I'm hot for you Cowgirl.

You’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby—I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces; pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight.  Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you . . . stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl, and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier; there’s only one side of you: the good side.

Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose. YEE-HAW !  Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet—be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset…

 

PROMPT #18 an ode to life’s small pleasures

Ode to a Caulk Gun

NaPoWriMo prompt: a poem that takes the form of a warning label

STICK’EM UP
with LIQUID NAILS

DANGER ! EXTREMELY FLAMMABLE
See Other Caution on Back Panel:

I’m hot for you Cowgirl. You’re so flammable my glue-gun starts to melt; my screwdriver starts twisting when you loosen that low-slung belt. You make me feel like laying re-bar in a freshly-poured foundation. Shoot me up with that caulk gun baby—I need you like salvation. Ten and one-half fluid ounces—pull off your top, pop a love-cap in me. Fingerin’ your trigger while the job is gettin’ bigger so take me for a ride to the hardware store, honey, cause I’m seeing red and feeling white on your golden background’s sheer delight.  Hammer me a heart-full, spike me on a cross of blonde, I’m hanging ten, surfing the tube of your magic wand. I’ve been in love ever since I first waterproofed my seamy undersides with you . . . stand over me in those red, red boots, you Liquid Nails Girl—and from your pure white Stetson let righteousness unfurl. You won the shoot-out long before you even drew, my dear. Lost hope of the Wild West, Final Frontal Feminine Frontier—there’s only one side of you . . . your GOOD side.  Just one look and your fearless gaze silences the foes, my blooming prairie rose.
YEE-HAW !  Be my angel, be my dream, my valentine rodeo queen, be my bodyguard, my therapist, long & tall & hard & wet—be my Liquid Nails Girl forever and I’ll ride right into your sunset . . .

NEXT IDEA: the Land O’ Lakes Squaw . . .

IMAGE CREDIT:  radargeek @ flickriver.com

Hoofbeats, Hoofbeats, Hoofbeats !

I wonder, at times, how I got caught up in this useless obsession called Poetry.
Along with nursery rhymes, ad jingles, and pop music, it must have been immortal lines such as the Rex Trailer’s Boomtown show theme which cursed me with this love of rhythmic language and imagery. Listening to it today I am struck by the primal force of this TV cowboy poetry:

♪♫♪ Covered wagons were a-rollin’ out along the trail
on the way to the golden West…  ♫♪♫♪

When Cows Come Home

 

cow come home

The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration,
yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink.
They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination:
where does “beef” come from?  A herd tends to think

of pasturage, water, and basic needs.
Ranch-hands assured them all was in order;
privileged guests enjoy the finest  feeds.
Cows, content on this side of the border

try Buddhism, yoga—or simply gaze…
though things in the distance loomed ominous
(those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways)
and a stench wafted into their consciousness.

Calves frolicked on while bulls mounted heifers—
dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses
some earned doctorates, others went clubbing;
all loosed sustainable methane gases.

Soothing their calves with fables and stories
where cows are the measure of pastured life
they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries,
affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife.

“It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear.
We’re on this planet without any clue.
We evolved. From just what is a little unclear—
but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”

 

 COW IMAGE: wallpapersus.com