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Christopher Maxfield

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Yakima, WA, US

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The Ballad of the Nice Guys

by

Christopher Maxfield

To gaze upon a woman fair
With lustful eyes is hardly rare,
But should the gazer feel ashamed
That surging passion stays untamed?

The secret fear of the nicest guys
Insists their smiles are merely lies
While underneath their decent skin
Is buried a soul that's steeped in sin.

They live in terror of the day
When the fairness they worship falls away,
Revealing a petulant scheming child
Who seeks fellow men to be mocked or reviled.

Though buttressed by dreams and good intent,
The souls of the nice guys are brutally bent;
Twisted by loneliness, angst, and fear
And aching for reasons never made clear.

To busy themselves they relentlessly strive
To have a good time while remaining alive;
Sweet fantasies cushion reality's blows
And protect them from everything nobody knows.

The nice guys hold their anger back;
They're sensitive to sneak attack.
These confrontations fray their nerves
As life, again, throws wicked curves!

It's said that nice guys finish last
(Though they'd insist that's in the past);
Have the nice guys risen above it all
Or just engineered a nastier fall?


A Droll Tale

by

Christopher Maxfield

The putrid little wart on the bottom of my toe
Has the arrogant presumtion to continually grow.
It's straining through the fabric of my skin-tight cotton sock
And leaves a dent inside my shoe like it contained a rock!

And now the wart has grown so large it's split my shoe apart!
To see a doctor right away would probably be smart,
But I'm having real trouble getting my butt out the door,
For the nasty thing is burrowing a hole right through the floor!

It's halfway to the basement now and pulling me along;
I'm straining hard to fight it yet afraid I'm not that strong!
I'm clawing at the floorboards as it pulls me through the hole;
So how could I anticipate its acting like a mole?

And now the wart's grown arms and legs and pulled its foul self free!
It's disengaged from my big toe and quickly starts to flee.
I suppose that I should give it chase but I'm feeling rather tired;
Instead I'll rest and then reflect on all that has transpired.


A Political Portrait: 1992

by

Christopher Maxfield

Forcefully, with pedigree, President Bush proclaimed
In voice so proud of battle loud, and lives so justly claimed.
Proceeding thus he cautioned us to be complacent--Not!
Allowing those, our loathsome foes, to cause our State to rot.
"So," he urged, "our country purged of dissidents must be!
Lest, in pale, we idly fail this land so brave and free!"

Bush paused a bit and noticed it was nearly half past eight;
Yes, once more, he'd been a bore and talked on far too late.
All the guests, brightest and best, were bored out of their minds;
Wishing him, on playful whim, foul plagues of different kinds!

Danforth Quayle, at Bush's hail, rises from his seat,
Nods a bit, but that is it--he must avoid the heat!
Quayle stays mum, 'cause Bush ain't dumb; Dan's not the talking breed!
Not real old, and hardly bold (as safe as George might need).
Redford's face his only grace, Quayle's some pathetic hawk;
Guardsman Dan, while some faced 'Nam, write phony P.R. talk!
God's commands he understands, like how abortion's sin;
Quayle says wives should not take lives when rapists leave one in!
The right wing's voice, Dan's not pro-choice; the Vice Prez he insists
That she adopt, or she'll be stopped by laws if she persists!

Bush himself, upon his shelf, has bloopers by the score:
He said then, "Pearl Harbor's when? My memory is poor!"
"Read my lips," and other slips, keep us from trusting him;
Here's my perception: re-election chances are quite slim.
His speech done, Bush makes a pun, leaving the press laughing;
Unrehearsed, he exits first, to avoid the photographing.
Bush unwinds with fried pork rinds, bad golfing, and horseshoes;
Kennebunkport is his sort of place to beat the blues!