Roasting Anna Marie in Italian Gravy…

Always looney as she so diligently admits,

Lives in the booneys, isn’t that the pits?

Perfectly funny as humorists go,

Never does she do a poem that is really low…

Apparently, she is however, just a bit slow,

Light of hair, dark of eye, fair of skin, I don’t lie,

Life she does not take seriously, only to laugh with a bit of rye,

Raised in a family of eight, she learned her skills right from the gate…

Don’t give her a subject to write, no ideas either should she get,

She has more than enough of her own, she will always be there if we let,

Many books have on them her moniker, all, fun to read, all planting seeds,

She has a garden, a bit off kilter, but nonetheless it hasn’t killed her…

I hope you all and she find this offhanded roast to be of some humor,

I have tried to do so without getting too looney, as she would not appreciate,

My telling stories outside of the bin,

Yes the rubber room she does share with her bottle of gin,

Oh no, she does not drink to excess, well maybe wine every now and then,

But with that bottle, she has a friend, someone to talk to, ain’t that a sin?

                        © ed – 5/27/04