 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.
Send Email to Bob.
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Sunday Siesta
Sunday morning;
Hear that bell?
Straight from heaven,
Sure as hell.
Doze til noon-time,
Counting sheep?
Bell's in tune-time,
No can sleep.
Guess they've got me
In the lurch:
Pray in bed,
Or sleep in church.
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Medical Mayhem
Found a hangnail on my pinky.
Insignificant, so dinky.
How to mend it? What to do,
Make it good again, like new?
Soon an answer came to me
>From a "doctor" on TV.
Fifty bucks, a single ounce
Of medicine I can't pronounce.
One thing that was said for sure:
Side-effects just might occur:
Tooth disease like pyorrhea;
Dizziness, with diarrhea;
Ear wax, and resulting pain;
Lesions forming on my brain;
Trouble with my circulation;
Gas-attacks and constipation;
Monthly curses gone awry.
(Hold it, doctor; I'm a guy!)
When all was said, and all was done,
The treatment didn't seem like fun.
I guess I'll just ignore my dang nail,
And simply hang onto my hangnail.
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