Rodgers's My Funny Valentine

 

Our Boy is thirty-nine.

(He claims he's thirty-nine;

My cat just laughed till it cried.)

 

—Did some rich Darien

Octogenarian

Leave you her wrinkles when she died?

 

Are you past your "sell-by" date?

Will you soon be called the late—?

Do your candles and your weight

Coincide?

 

Well, don't set the cat alight;

I'm just your satellite.

Why let your satellite dish?

We'll say you're thirty-nine . . . ish.

 

 

Rodgers's Surrey With the Fringe on Top

 

Hicks and flakes step out with an iPod

Hooked on belt, or hung on a tripod.

Chances are, you might think the type odd,

But you're wrong; they're not:

 

No one from Da Brat to The Bopper

Rakes in even one little copper

From the songs they keep in the hopper,

'Cause the files are hot.

 

They hack through firewalls and jimmy e-locks

With software got for a pittance;

They'd probably manage to invade Fort Knox,

Despite that it says No Admittance.

 

You, who turn out hits for a living—

You might feel a bit unforgiving;

You might think they're fit for a shivving

In a nice, soft spot.

Still, they're very, very sorry to infringe.

(No, they're not.)

 

 

Rodgers's The Lady Is A Tramp

 

She goes for fellas who go for her mind;

Has lots of boyfriends, but all the same kind;

Go look up "fag hag," and guess what you'll find?

No doubt, the lady's into camp.

 

She's one of Nature's improbable 10's;

Her bust eclipses Sophia Loren's;

But she and menfolk can only be frenz.

No doubt, the lady's into camp.

 

So when a straight stud hands her a line,

Does she decline?

She's ice—

No dice!

 

She's got potential, but only one amp.

No doubt, the lady's into camp.