The Bald Soprano opened.
Twenty-three shows left.
A tune filled the dining room.
It was “Three Blind Mice”.
Briefly stalled with sandwiches.
Beware the triptophan.
But Keith pondered the question,
“Wow that was just four?!”
Oh, sweet self inflicted wound!
Own worst enemy.
Cigarettes in the booth,
A brown mustache falls.
You know you are our sunshine
You are our bouquet
Neck and shoulders tight, so tight
Muscles atrophy.
Sinks his teeth into the air.
Still rockin! We don’t care!
Sometimes there is someone there.
Other times, there’s not.
Like a shot of fresh canned cheese
Aiming for your mouth.
The comedy was tasty.
The “Fun Cheez” was not.
But one man has been sitting
For at least eight shows.
It saddens me a little
To have no more poems.
A bit of fixing helps them
To get them back onstage.
Toss around a ball of yarn.
Do the roboto.
Bobbi Block laughs for Adam.
Mary moves sexy.
Awkward silences, big laughs.
Spit-take not so great.
Fire Chief molested.
Rings around the eyes, glow brightened
Like being on drugs.
Now a naked Fire Chief
Sends chills through the crowd.
The last the same as the first.
Leave it all behind.
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