Beans in a Jar

At the DeKalb Street Fair, a shady character

Offered me chances to win a cheap transistor radio

By guessing the number of beans in a jar.  Apparently,

An unknown number of desiccated kidney beans

In a five-gallon pickle jar equals a chintzy, plastic,

Static-riddled transistor radio in certain quarters.

It was for charity, he said, and cheap enough, so

I ventured on a chance or two.  Wasn't even close.

Later that night, on the way home, I was accosted

By a queer cosmic customer, bathed in chill

Bioluminescence.  He was a businessman angel,

He said, with a proposition.  Offered me chances

To win my own planet, provided I could guess

The number of stars in the Andromeda galaxy.

I can't afford a game like that, I cried.  It's free,

He retorted.  So I played -- who could resist

Stakes like that for free?  Wasn't even close.

And the planet was probably uninhabitable, anyway.

Please Don't

Steal our Lava

Poku is an island based on Nature's tropical plan,

Where palm trees smell like incense and trade winds smell like flan.

But what makes the tourists swear that we're the paradisical peak

Is Mount Wahu, a volcano that erupts three times a week.

The lava that Mount Wahu spits makes a fascinating story.

It piles up offshore, thereby expanding our territory.

Of course, the other side of the island is perpetually eroding,

So the lava is the only thing that keeps our space from imploding.

So, please don't steal our lava or our island -- she will sink.

We can't lure tourist dollars when we're knee-deep in the drink.

Take our pineapples and coffee, and we won't even blink.

But please don't steal our lava or the whole damned place will sink.

We fill up our tour buses with roving rabid foreign bands,

And drive them up the garden path straight to the Pumiced Land.

We tell them:  "Keep your hands inside.  You can look, but do not touch--"

As per environmental law, which they don't follow much.

We take them within a mile of Mount Wahu's hostile hiss.

Then they sneak off and steal pieces that they think no one will miss.

But they don't understand that to us this is a very heinous crime:

The stealing of our island a little bit at a time.

Please don't steal our lava.  It means we're losing ground.

And if we lose too much of it, then everyone will drown.

Our flotsam/jetsam will just drift off 'til it lands in Puget Sound.

So please don't steal our lava.  That's really out of bounds.

So, friends, seems we must caution you:  don't pick at our habitat.

Why don't you go back to Manhattan, and sneak pieces out of that?

The whole idea has us awash in lamentations and tears:

If you swipe our lava, we can't sell it for souvenirs!

So, please don't steal our lava or our island -- she will sink.

Our tourism-based economy will vanish in a wink.

Don't want to be the world's first underwater roller-rink.

So, please don't steal our lava or the whole damned place will sink.

Mrs. Rubenstein's

Night in the Hospital

(inspired by Mrs. Robinson)

We'd like to have you sit down and fill out our questionnaire.

Put on this little gown without a back.

Let us know your next-of-kin in case the worst should come.

And any allergies -- they're always lots of laughs.

Stick out your tongue, Mrs. Rubinstein.

The intern wants to know just where it hurts.

It's for our charts.

Turn your head and cough, Mrs. Rubinstein.

If you don't know how, we'll just have to ad-lib.

Don't strain a rib.

You'll stain the bib.

We'll take some X-rays and perhaps a sonogram,

Park you in the hallway where it's drafty.

If you weren't sick when you came in, you will be when we're through.

That's how we fill Intensive Care.  Gosh, we are crafty.

Would you hold still, Mrs. Rubinstein?

Needles aren't as all bad as that.

Just ask my cat.

Try not to look, Mrs. Rubinstein.

The hypo just came out your other side.

Best let it slide

(Formaldehyde).

You're the only patient who has not griped at the food.

Maybe 'cause you're having trouble breathing.

Our neurosurgeon's off today, I think he's being sued.

In the Operating Theatre he gets booed.

Here's more good news, Mrs. Rubinstein.

Your Health Plan says they won't pay for your stay--

Have a nice day.

What can we say, Mrs. Rubinstein?

Maybe you could auction off your car.

Cruise the bars,

Show folks your scar,

Or go to Mars ...

All Poems and Illustrations ©  2000 Robert Dunn.