A tuna fish married a horse

They served seaweed and rolled oats of course

‘til that drunken bride filly

Drained the pond (“To be silly!”)

Ending in a slippery and messy divorce.

I’m knocking on Hollywood’s backdoor

Hanging ‘round craft like a goddamned snack whore

Filling hours of void

With sneak peeks at my Droid

‘Tis the life of an expiring actor.

(Here he is about to sing Anatevka.)

When Stallone was younger and lid’ler

He starred in a production of Fiddler

He couldn’t really sing

But there was a wind ‘neath his wing

In a sassy young jew named Bette Midler

When it feels like your life’s in the can

“What, I’m aging?! Gee thanks, Peter Pan.”

Stop asking “God, why?”

Puff your chest up real high

And cry, “I’m a little sunshine man!”

Farther westward the caravan goes

Carrying Jim, Ma, Pa, and Sharon’s Rose

Simple folk seek no fame

Just fortune’s fair claim

And wine grapes to squeeze through their toes

It isn’t the “can’ts” and the “maybes”

It’s the “sures!” that seem to get rabies

Yes, cancel if you must

But now my whole night’s a bust

Why is pouting only OK for babies?

“Boys, could you be any sweeter?!

But my checkbook does totter and teeter

I know you planned on me buyin’ -

Oh, darlins please don’t start cryin’!”

“But now we don’t have no money eeder!”

I admit - I don’t know about sports

Spare me your incredulous snorts

I don’t care, I don’t care

I can’t make myself care

Now excuse me while I eat chocolate tortes

Meow-scuse me? Don’t pick me up! Ouch!

I’m freaked out, you crazy old grouch.

‘cause there’s a moth on the floor

And a dog fight next door

Now, if you need me, I’ll be inside the couch.

The lemons are ripe for the pickens

The elderly are surgical spring chickens

But I sure do miss

The smells of bagels and piss

And friends, funnier than the dickens

Some mornings I wake in a panic:

Happy then sad—guess I’m manic.

But I’ll settle my mood

After good breakfast food

With eggs that are vaguely Hispanic.

That Michael Kayne is really a stitch!

And he could sing his way out of a ditch

He founded Harry and Conrad,

A most foul-mouthed new dad

How I miss that son of a bitch.

My windshield was dirty as ferck

Asked a mechanic for help like a jerk

I said, “So, where do I pour?”

“Um, right there?!” then he swore

And goddamn that shit STILL doesn’t work.

when the prozac’s just not getting you through

follow me and do what I do

beyond the rain, beneath the sand

Is a place called Yogurtland

go make a sundae - and leave room for round 2!