Disgraced

Bad Dawg, #7

Michael Vick, he makes me sick,
If he were on my shoe, I’d flick
Him off with a chewed, fetching stick.
Yes! That would surely do the trick.

Michael Vick’s a football pro,
Lines Falcons up, all in a row;
Rarely sacked, puts on a show–
Too bad off-field he’s a wacko.

Michael Vick, may soon be jailed;
His canine fights have been curtailed,
For cruel maltreatment he’s been nailed–
Let’s hope his job has been derailed.

Michael Vick often flogs
His beasts at posts; and still he slogs,
Then, back out on the field he jogs–
His big career’s “gone to the dogs.”

Michael Vick what’s up today?
The NFL won’t let you play.
Your cards are selling on e-bay–
So sad those puppies gnawed away.

Michael Vick you think you’re “dope”
But really, it’s a slippery slope.
The “joint”, holds no dog-men, I hope–
Be careful when you go for soap.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

This One Stinks!

This is the original “Dorothy” poem that started my new career as a working poet. Thanks to a humble, odoriferous creature, I found my true calling.

Dorothy’s Adventure

Of who’s who in the hinterland
There’s beaver and there’s goose.
Of origin, Canadian,
And others on the loose.
One animal that springs to mind
Surrounded by a funk,
The ill-reputed, much-maligned
Highway-traversing skunk.

Recently, I happ’d upon
A hubbub in The Post
Concerning just such creature
Shipped from the U.S. coast
It seems inside a pipe she curled
Intent to hibernate,
And woke up in a strange, new world
Toronto was her fate.

A contest was set up that day
To name this beast and so,
“Dorothy’s” the stowaway
To me, it’s apropos.
Now, no one wants to let her stay
It’s down to anal glands.
In turn each group was heard to say
They wished to wash their hands.

Send her back the long way home
To thence from which she came.
Extradite, don’t let her roam
The poor girl gets the blame.
And hearing of this “tail” of woe
I could but only think,
That Dorothy just had to go
Because she raised a stink!

Just when it seemed that she was froze
In land of beer and hockey,
Form out the blue her saviour rose–
An L.A. radio jockey
Who, with his partner, he does choose
To drive this continent.
How glad I was to hear the news
He’s surely heaven-sent.

Despite this seeming cheery end
A codicil, I warn ya’;
It’s not so black and white
When she returns to California.
An irony indeed would be
“Dot” makes it home alive,
Then ventures out in early Spring
To cross “I Number 5”.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

Companion Piece

A bizarre photo in The National Post of an exceedingly large frog caught my eye. After some serious digging, I produced this piece. (Published in The Daily Gleaner)
Frog Prints

It started in Killarney Lake,
A saga some dispute.
But to this day the tourists
Come to gawp –it’s just a hoot!
Way back in 1885,
Fred Coleman set afloat
To catch some fish for supper,
When a frog jumped in his boat.

Now Fred maintained his story
Until the day he died–
Said he fed this frog on whiskey
Buttermilk, and bread beside.
And this amphibious creature
Beyond belief it grew–
Was said to race with tomcats
Even tow the odd canoe!

Then one day something happened–
No fish were to be found.
So they went and blew the lake up
And the frog he up and drowned.
But Fred just couldn’t part with
His underwater chum
He had it stuffed and mounted
Himself to feel less glum.

The frog he sat in honour
In lobby of hotel
But patrons put their butts out–
On his back and head as well.
A group of local experts
Called the frog a “patent fake”.
And others thought that science
Was the route that they should take.

Well, Fred died some years later
The frog it found its way
To a Fredericton museum
Where it’s glassed in from the fray.
McGill scoffs that it’s nonsense
No “Goliath” have we here.
Discovery Channel did a bit
For kiddies just last year.

Today it’s known as “Coleman’s”
No-one’s taking DNA.
Perhaps they’re scared of
Scraping off some papier mâche.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

Monkey Business

A Macaque on the “lam” was a story I just could not ignore. It proved to be a difficult poem, but in the end, I felt it told a good tale.

Julian’s Get-away

Certainly, no expert me
In classing vertebrates
But mem’ry serves me well upon
The order of Primates.
Which brings me to yarn, quirky
‘Bout an Old World macaque
Who AWOL went allegedly
And how he was got back.

In County of Prince Edward –
Lovely, Picton – more precise
A zoo of some exotics —
Neighbours think it less than nice.
For say, a rav’nous tiger
Cuts down some cudding cow;
One jugular incision
And where’ll be Bessie now?


Of course you must be musing
How to monkey this pertains?
So now the plot does thicken–
“Julian” broke his ball and chains.
The owners say it’s simpler,
If we can only grasp–
Meddler loosed Snow monkey
With tamp’ring of the clasp.


To catch the desperado
Cop puts out APB:
Red of face and brown of hair;
Drawing composite had he?
Also comes a caution:
“No contact”, if you please;
Monkeys of his ilk are
Maybe bearing B herpes


Jailbird’s 2 days on the run
Then found in swampy wood;
Perhaps his instincts Asian
Sensed a spa would feel real good.
Ma, Yoko and Pa, Ono
Back at Bergeron’s zoo,
Must have had some post-cards
Of the hot-springs of Honshu!

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

Flamingo Duo

News of a pair of male flamingos who adopted a baby chick egg and became proud parents spurred talk of the “couple” being gay. This seemed a bit of a stretch to me. Early one morning, this piece took flight.

The Legend of Carlos & Fernando

So, ‘seems that the press everywhere
Has been flaunting this fabulous pair
Of flamingos, unruffled
The world is kerfuffled
And all passers-by stop and stare.

You see, we have Carlos y ‘Nando
Who hail from the usual band o’
Big birds in the pink
(She says with a wink) —
Putting on a performance, commando.

At the start Fern and Carlos were just
Two sociable singles nonplussed
By the whole dating scene
Thought they’d break from routine
Now the media – they’ve got it sussed.

Yes, those clever wordsmithers have stressed
That this pairing of equals is blessed
With a chick under wing,
This cannot be a fling
Sure, and next they’ll fly out to Key West!

To end it off, let me just say,
This notion they’re pushing, “Oy Vey!”
Allow me, in closing
It’s we, who’re imposing
This word, what do birds know from “gay”?

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

Concerted Effort

A Canada Day festival in P.E.I. turned out to be less than the “family event” that was originally planned. Here’ s my take on the situation at the event and at large.
The Gleaner in Fredericton published this poem in their Saturday edition.

Festival of Slights

In Charlottetown, Prince Edward Isle
Debate is in session; don’t smile.
Some folks are uproaring
While others are storing
Their expletives up for a while.

The headliner band, Nickleback
On profanity, hinged ev’ry track
And underage drinking
Applauded unthinking–
Left councillors under attack.

The trend in this day seems to be,
Let anything fly – just be free
With curse and vulgarity
These days no rarity–
Hang out in a schoolyard and see.

Now debate is ongoing online;
On the Island youth think it’s just fine
To go on with their swearing,
There’s nobody caring
So, shut up, refrain from your whine!

Can’t say it’s a big shock to me
It’s happ’ning for what do we see?
“Madge’s” bold, “Mother-F…”
Sure made my lips pucker,
When she screamed it on Live Earth T.V.

The upshot of Canada Day
Is people can say what they say.
So what does it matter
If all their bad patter
Pelts down on us? F-bombs Away!

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

The Hitcher

When a wayward skunk stowed away in a pipe in California and ended up being shipped all the way to Toronto, Ontario, naturally, I was keen to capture it in verse. This version is one I did for kids.

Dorothy’s Adventure

Not long ago as I did read
The paper with my tea
A story there about a skunk
Did truly capture me

It seems one curled up in a pipe
To have a little nap
Then woke up in our country
She could have used a map

And someone called her “Dorothy”
Like the one in the book
About the Wizard and the Witch
And the great trip she took

So sad, but no-one in our land
Would let the poor girl stay
Because she was so smelly
She had to go away.

And nobody would take her
On either plane or bus
Until a deejay in the States
Said “Really, what’s the fuss”?

So he and his good partner
Came driving up together
All the way from California
Despite our winter weather.

So Dorothy, she hitched a ride
Inside their winnebago
And got back home all in good time
For Spring in San Diego!

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007