Our convention starts at eight.

OH! What a week for history!
A speech by ailing Kennedy
Why, even Bill and Hillary
And half the Biden clan.

Michelle got up in her green dress
And Richardson gave his address
Kucinich even joined the mess.
Sing it loud, "Yes we can!"

Then Barak stood out in the field
And every promise he revealed
Was, with a plan, so artfully sealed.
All upstaged by Miss Palin.

Our trains leaves a little after 8

To every hill, valley, and nation
Around the world won't take that long
Visiting our musical relations
For the better or the wrong
It will either bore or amaze us
You'll have to dance or want to sit.
But, like the weather here in Texas
All you do is wait a bit

Eight o'clock, let's get started!

Quick! before I forget to say:
Sarah Fouquet turns an age today.

Each week I write a little rhyme
About how I will spin it.
Sometimes I do ahead of time;
Sometimes at the last minute.
I had worked out a lovely refrain
About love and the past and regret.
But a glimpse of a coyote from the train
Made me completely forget.

Spiders love eight! I'm passing out the Eightoraid!

August eighth, two-thousand eight
At eight PM, a lucky date
The Chinese all seem to revere
(And twice the sum of all their fears)
Not many songs will fit that theme
Unpopular topic, it seems
But I'll say this in my defense
You don't know what I'm up against.

I got tired of rhyming.

As the sun has moved from Cancer into Leo strong,
so day's slow decrease has begun and heat bear down.
As another moon has passed, so rents are due once more.
What primal forces bring us close and cheer our hearts
as we gather once more to dance our cares away?
Such mysteries have oft been discussed
and shall again, as clocks strike the eighth hour.