Watch for the Moon

Each night I watch for the moon,

Even in a monsoon in June,

I still watch for the moon,

Singing this tune:

“Oon, *Judoon, big balloon!

Zoom, flume, honeymoon!

Soon, goon, big typhoon!

Boon, coon, lovers’ moon!

Gloom, doom, great big boom!

Sand dune, straight-up noon.

Elves’ rune—magic tune.

Spoon, zoon, blue baboon!

And so much for the moon in June!”

*The Judoon were a race of rhinocerid humanoids from the planet Judoonia, frequently employed as a mercenary police force. (From BBC’s “Doctor Who” series.)


Cold, Freezing, Cold!

We in New Hampshire are experiencing such arctic cold that we are all in danger of freezing into a solid mass. Should we fall, we would be shattered into frozen people bits. The sheer brutality of the cold is enough to bring on instant cold or flu, so these days when I have to go out, I am literally bundled from eyebrows to toes.

This kind of brutal cold brings to mind one of my favorite poets, Ogden Nash. Pull a warm blanket around your shoulders, sip some hot tea and read his poem, “Winter Complaint:”

Now when I have a cold
I am careful with my cold,
I consult a physician
And I do as I am told.
I muffle up my torso
In woolly woolly garb,
And I quaff great flagons
Of sodium bicarb.
I munch on aspirin,
I lunch on water,
And I wouldn’t dream of osculating
Anybody’s daughter,
And to anybody’s son
I wouldn’t say howdy,
For I am a sufferer
Magna cum laude.
I don’t like germs,
But I’ll keep the germs I’ve got.
Will I take a chance of spreading them?
Definitely not.
I sneeze out the window
And I cough up the flue,
And I live like a hermit
Till the germs get through.
And because I’m considerate,
Because I’m wary,
I am treated by my friends
Like Typhoid Mary.

Now when you have a cold
You are careless with your cold,
You are cocky as a gangster
Who has just been paroled.
You ignore your physician,
You eat steaks and oxtails,
You stuff yourself with starches,
You drink lots of cocktails,
And you claim that gargling
Is a time of waste,
And you won’t take soda
For you don’t like the taste,
And you prowl around parties
Full of selfish bliss,
And greet your hostess
With a genial kiss.
You convert yourself
Into a deadly missle,
You exhale Hello’s
Like a steamboat wistle.
You sneeze in the subway
And you cough at dances,
And let everybody else
Take their own good chances.
You’re a bronchial boor,
A bacterial blighter,
And you get more invitations
Than a gossip writer.

Yes, your throat is froggy,
And your eyes are swimmy,
And you hand is clammy,
And you nose is brimmy,
But you woo my girls
And their hearts you jimmy
While I sit here
With the cold you gimmy.