Ogden Nash died from slaw,
Not correctly made at all.
Funny poet, I hear say,
Made ’em laugh, “Back in the day.”
Composing with agility,
Using his ability,
He mashed words like fresh-grown squash,
Made them taste like ap-ple-sauce.
Loved a team in Bal-ti-more,
Though it don’t play there no more.
Colts, you see, moved out of state,
Drivin’ big-rigs way too late.
Ogden wrote with playful twists,
Using nouns & verby lists —
Letters formed with impish love,
Poking them with boxing gloves.
Rarely sad, but often funny,
Nash so good that he made money.
Makin’ words jump lips & loops,
Teedle-dums & chicken coops.
Oh that I could write that well,
Penning quips that might just sell —
Snagging fame like Oggie Nash,
Filling pockets up with cash.
Ogden died from eating slaw,
Not correctly made at all.
Wish he’d had dessert instead —
Mebbe with a piece of bread.
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