Slim Acres wrote a number of humorous short poems over many years. Most of them were first written for his "Slim Acres Says" newspaper feature, but he edited and republished many of them in Down Country Roads. Here's a selection.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
But they don't get around
Like the dandelions do!

Rose's are red,
Violet's are blue;
Jeanie's are pink,
With lace on 'em, too!

The Golden Rule
Is easy fergot
If we'uns can git
What you'uns have got.

There is good in the worst of us,
And bad in the best of us;
That's why the most of us
Won't trust the rest of us.

Cousin Danny used to claim
To be a judge of women,
But what he took
To be a peach
Turned out to be a lemon!

Could I but change my lot in life
I'd scorn both fame and riches;
I'd rather be a swarm of bees
In Comrade Stalin's britches.

How nice to sit at eventide
And rest from all our labors,
The open fireplace beside,
And talk about our neighbors.

Poor and lonely
Is my station;
For I lent money
To my relation.

A fault I find with students
Of this modern generation:
Too many who go to college
Get a high school education!

I'd rather feel lonely
And a little bit slighted,
Than for people to come
When they ain't been invited!

I'd trust my neighbors
But I've got a lock
On my smoke-house door!

Mary was fat and foolish,
And popular with the boys;
Mary had a bank account
To match her avoirdupois!

We ought to love our neighbor
For a richer, fuller life,
But it's awful risky business
To love thy neighbor's wife!

Whether a man's successful,
I always did allow,
Depends purty much
On what he does
When the ground's too wet to plow!

Maybe Darwin was wrong,
But this I have found:
A lot of man's troubles
Come from monkeyin' around!

He led her up to the altar;
She was homely as sin.
The evening paper related
What the bride was lovely in.

There ain't nothin',
I don't think,
As aggravatin'
As a stopped-up sink!

I like the cooing
Of the turtle dove,
But don't like to hear one
Straight up above.

Mother has a mini-skirt
She prefers to any other.
Maybe she doesn't show good taste,
But she shows a lot of mother!

'Most anyone's able,
O'er a well-filled table,
To be full of cheer on Sunday.
But the man worth while
Is the man who can smile
When he's eating hash on Monday!

Old Mother Hubbard
Kept lye in her cupboard,
Along with her powdered bromides.
She went there at night,
Without any light,
Now the poor soul has no insides!

A little nonsense,
Now and then,
Makes life worth while
For married men.

I like so much
To type by touch,
While gazing 'round about;
Across the keys
I roam with ease,
But I can't read what comes out!

When a candidate runs
Fer somethin' er other,
He loves you jist
Like a long lost brother;
But when the battle
Is fought and won,
You never can find
The son-of-a-gun!

As I sit in meditation
On the subject of Creation,
Perplexing questions to my mind occur;
How Man was made, I wonder,
But what gits me, by thunder,
Is what the Maker ever made him fer!

I cannot help but wonder why
Nobody loves the dziggetai.

With your eye to the future, and your ear to the ground,
The chances are you'll appear
To have a far-away look in your eye
And also one dirty ear!

You'd think the feller
Who wrote this rhyme
Would have better ways
Of spendin' his time.