Well, he’s one pencil short
Of a full deck.

He is not the sharpest crayon
In the silverware drawer.

He has bats in
The windmills of his mind.

He’s not playing with a 
Full pencil box.

We’ve taken the horns 
by the scruff of the neck.

I wish he’d stop running around
Like a chicken with his hat off.

I believe this train has sailed.

Now, we’re sailing close to thin ice.

But it’s not over until the last whistle 
blows the fat lady over.

Till we meet again,
Keep your eye to the grindstone.

And don’t let the door hit you
Where the sun don’t shine.




By Diane E. Dockum
©April 27, 2026