THE ANGEL BEAST

The smoky fires in Canada, have clouded my rural store,

I don't sell much here, except pop, smokes, chips and my stories of lore,

I tell tourists of the angel beast,

While perched on smoke clouds, he picks his feast,

Tourists filled with my smokes, chips and pop, are the ones he picks, the least.

TEETH BRUSHED WILL TRAVEL

Palmer likes to hit the booze, some say he is nothing but a lush,

I find it hard to tell, because after each drink, his teeth he'll brush,

Palmer travels on a train,

Sometimes Palmer takes a plane,

Palmer always has his toothbrush, so his habit stays hush, hush.

SALESMAN ON THE ROAD LIMERICK

To get up early every day,
And, write an itinerary by which to play,
It's a meaningless job,
For every Tom, Dick and Bob,
It's the life of a salesman gone away.