The Whistle Blower
Took the sins of the Corporation
Upon her shoulders
The indignity of her firing
Struggling to make ends meet
Unemployed, without prospect
Children crying, hungry
Yet she endured
The barrage of punishing lawsuits
A legion of lawyers platooned
To make her life unbearable
Anonymous threats
Phone calls and burning
Mailboxes
Almost beaten, she clung
With bleeding fingers to the
Inviolable Truth
Truth that held her steady
Truth that wouldn't let her go
Truth demanding apology
The gavel came down.
Some hear screams in the dead of night
Most continue dreaming
The bed so comfortable, and the morning
So far away.
Eulogy
Bud was a special kind of guy.
He only drank the real thing,
The choice of a new generation, Generation Next.
He was a cut above the rest,
Not like the other white meat.
He was on the information super highway.
He reached out and touched a lot of someones.
He tried harder, because he wanted to have it his way.
Why sometimes he did the work of two, two, two people in one,
And when he measured success, he measured it the old-fashioned way,
One customer at a time.
Not only did he own his own company, but he was a client himself.
He was strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Gee, his hair smelled terrific.
He may have had the heartbreak of psoriasis,
But everyone knew he was good to the last drop.
Mmm, mmm, good, that's what he was.
He had a better idea and that's why choosy mothers chose him.
And even though he got that dry, itchy feeling once in a while,
It was so natural even his barber couldn't tell.
Yes, Bud was something special.
He was fast-acting, extra strength,
Going for the gusto,
The kind of guy who stayed crunchy, even in milk.
Yes, we're all gonna miss him.
We wish we could be like him,
Because he brought good things to life.
He was magically delicious.
But now he's flying the friendly skies,
And so we'll just have to get used to leaving home without him.
But still we trust that the Good Lord is doing it right,
And knowing our friend is in good hands, we lift up our glasses and say,
"Lord, this Bud's for you."
How Crass
If only wealth and class went hand-in-hand
but alas
'Tis often the ass with the champagne glass
who gets the lass
While the poor gentle man must mow the grass.
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Laurence Overmire is an American actor/director/writer who has worked on stage, film and television. His poetry has been widely published in the U.S. and abroad, including "Kimera," "Main Street Rag Poetry Journal," "Bardo Burner," "American Muse," "Lynx: Poetry from Bath," "Poetry DownUnder," "Stirring," "Thunder Sandwich," "Samsara Quarterly," "Jack Magazine," "The Hinterland," "Free Zone Quarterly," "Pogonip," "Kookamonga Square" and many others.
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