 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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Dead Reckoning
An empty seat, close by the play.
A great World Series, final day.
The "owner" of the vacant chair
First bade me, "Sit," then "Put 'er there."
He reminisced about the life
He'd had with his departed wife,
About the moguls that they'd seen,
The likes of Aaron, Ruth and Dean.
"Our dedication we'd proclaim;
We vowed we'd never miss a game."
I asked, "Why grant this seat to me,
A total stranger that I be?
Why not invite a fav'rite chum?
Or relative, since you're so glum?"
He said, "I'm lonely. Days are dark.
I feel alone here at the park.
Our friends and relatives all vied
To be here with me, how they tried.
They couldn't make it, sad to say.
They're at her funeral today."
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The Vegas Touch
This guy approaches, in the dark,
A spot where tourists tend to park.
"Fifty bucks I'd like to borrow.
Pay you back by noon tomorrow."
He tells me once, then once again,
Of wife and kids, aged six and 10.
"We've been evicted, and what's more,
The wolf was waiting at the door!
We've only scraps of food to eat;
And now we're sleeping in the street."
I said, "You'd make us look like saps
If you should blow the dough on craps."
He tells me, "Absolutely not!
Gambling money, that I've got!"
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