In Which I Plea For Less Talk Of Pus

'Tis hunting season. We know what that means:
Blaze orange clothes and hats, and pickup loads
Of animals and parts thereof, and scenes
Of game wardens beheading, 'longside roads
(To check for chronic wasting disease signs),
The newly-harvested elk, moose and deer
And checking paperwork, issuing fines
As needed. Then there's something that I fear
Most deeply, though my stomach's truly strong
(A fancier of insects needs one such):
That's graphic talk of wounds and pus and wrong
And pungent smells from parasites. Too much
Of that talk always makes me ill, yet lo:
It is my fate to hear it, ever so.

All In A Saratoga Morning

I've had sufficient coffee not to sleep
Until around this week next time, I think.
I'm glad I've still the skills that let me leap
From coffee klatsch to coffee klatsch and drink
Such copious quantities with ne'er a stop.
First my old man and his old friends with whom
I dip back into politics, then drop
On by another bar, there to consume
With my small hot chick posse a bit more.
Then coffee with my lunch, then the salon:
A cut and color genius has in store
A bold new plan for my look. Foiled and on
The fumes of haute hair product, I admire
The stylist's hunting pictures. They inspire!