 Your regular dose of versified humor
by our Poet in Deference: Bob Wombacher Jr.
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Bob Wombacher, Jr., originally from Proctor, Minnesota, has lived in Page, Arizona for over a quarter of a century. A divorced father of three grown sons, Bob owns a business (Bashful Bob's Motel) in Page, near Lake Powell. He is a prolific writer of humorous poetry, and much of his work can be seen on his poetry website.
He admits to fudging a bit when it comes to finding ideas for his rhymes: "I've been collecting jokes ever since I was a teenager," says Bob. "My library of funny, little stories provides me with endless situations that lend themselves to becoming the raw material of which poems can be constructed." Bob thinks that rhyme and meter are important components of poetry, especially that composed in a humorous vein.
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"Wrong Nail, Dude"
A mashed forefinger was my lot.
(A crosseyed carpenter I be).
I get no pity; none was sought;
Relief from pain sufficed for me.
My woman brings some goop so tart
It makes me weep, and then she said:
"Since that stuff makes your finger smart,
Let's rub a little on your head."
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The Tater Toter
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It happened many years ago.
A dusty road in Idaho.
Still in my horse 'n' buggy mode,
I passed a man with heavy load.
Those bagged potatoes he did bear,
(In Idaho they're ev'rywhere.)
Must surely weigh him down a ton.
Or maybe even more than one.
"Wouldst like a lift, pal?" I implored.
He thanked me as he clumb aboard.
(And if you doubt that clumb's a word,
You're right; it's really quite absurd
But I Digress.) We hit the road.
I said, "Put down your heavy load."
He said, "It's good to set a spell.
I'm grateful more than words can tell,
But hate to burden your poor nag
With me, plus taters in my bag."
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