Quiet Man

His form is slightly gaunt.
His hair is all but gone.
His eyes are grey, but still
Give off a spark of blue.
His hands are brown with age,
And spots show now on top
Of muscles in decline.
A flanel shirt hangs by
His desk and keeps him warm
When things get cold, but in
His eyes, his greying eyes,
You see that spark of blue.

Tell the Dirty Jokes (r2)

(the tax collector prays out loud)

Too articulate
For the simple minded fool
You all sit and fart

Ideas covered
In the wrapping paper of
Academia,
Expelling noxious
Symphonies as your haughty
Neck holes suck the air.

Damn it! Speak it through
As it really is in life.
Spare me pretentious
White-washed lyric lies,
The fantacy of "polite,"
And sit in the mud.

Do not be too big
To dance in the sty of man.
Tell the dirty jokes;
Drink a few wrong things;
And never forget ladies
Need a warm bed too.