Thanks, Jo, for your inspiration. I normally let Valentine's day pass unmarked. Unmarked like those police cars that you don't notice, but can pull you over and ruin your life, anyway.
So here are some Valentines that I would like to see. Are you listening, Hallmark? (I may add more later, I don’t know.)
Valentine 1
When Cupid takes me in his aim
To work his cursèd craft,
It seems I never get the point —
I always get the shaft.
So, if you’re like me, a pitied fool,
A lad without a lass,
I’m sure you’ll share this sentiment,
CUPID, KISS MY ASS!
Valentine 2
[Thanks, Jo!]
I’ve been dodging arrows left and right,
Thank you, Mister Cupid.
Eventually, you’ll strike your mark
’Cause, frankly, I am poopèd
Valentine 3: From a Terminal Patient
Won't you be my Valentine?
You know you hold my heart.
And, tho I now lay supine
I pray we never part.
If that day should ever come, my dear,
Please give me one last hug.
I'll shed a final, parting tear
And then you pull the plug.
Valentine 4
I give to you my heart, my love,
My spleen and liver, too.
I'll close my eyes, praise God above,
Then you can have those, too.
Goodbye! Take care, my sweets
Be good to your new owner.
Merry parts and merry meats,
From me, your organ donor.
Valentine 5
In the never-ending race for love
I don't know why I bust my ass.
Everyone knows, push comes to shove,
Nice guys *always* finish last!
Valentine 6
"It's ewe I love," the shepherd cried
As he gave a sheepish grin.
"I've loved before, God knows I tried,
You won't believe how long it's been!"
"Run away with me, my darling!
Let us flee this fulsome flock.
Enough, now. No more quarreling.
By hook or crook, I'll have you walk."
"People won't understand our love.
I know I shouldn't give a damn.
But it's not a thing I'm really proud of,"
And, so he took it on the lam.
Valentine 7: For An Australian
I’m A for T in love, you see,
I hope we two are never parted.
It’s plain to me, you’re dinki-di.
A bit more choke, you would have started!
***
RESPONSES
Gaya
Of Valentines I write tonight
I dread that fateful day!
For everyone whose partnered up
Gets candy, cards and lay(ed).
Wives, girlfriends get their roses
And their cards say “I love you”
They get taken out to dinner
And lots of chocolates too.
But those of us without a mate
stand out like a sore thumb.
We try to act like we don’t care
Our true feelings we keep mum.
I hate the day with all my Heart
It’s a Hallmark, schmaltzy ruse.
It makes us single, unmatched types
feel and look like fools.
Of Valentines I’m cynical
cause I’m single, through and through.
I may not get no roses
But to my own Heart I’ll be True!
Becca
On this day, I’ve called to ask
Your help with a minor task
This question may be a little bold
But I realize now, I’m getting old
I’ve searched the net far and wide
And can find no woman to be my bride
So I’d like for you to have my son
In your oven, I’ll put my bun
Your inconvenience will be minimal
I’ll cover every doctor bill
Well, that’s what I want, what’do you say?
Oh, and Happy Valentine’s Day.
Bob
I saw a girl I used to know
Then I went and chased her.
“Don’t run away! I’m friend, not foe …
You can use my turkey baster!”
“Come back to me, my One True … Like.
I only want to procreate!
I need someone to bear the tyke …
Come back before you ovulate!”
“I sense some hesitation.
This has ever been my doom!
I didn’t make a reservation
And you have a private womb.”
Jo
Of Valentine’s Day, I’m cynical, too.
Mated or not, it belongs in the loo.
I want to yell, “There is no Cupid,
Accept it, all you Stupid!”
Roses and candy and dinner out
What the hell is that all about?
Most of us sit home and stew
While hubbies scratch their heads and haven’t a clue.
When I think of my mate
It is so easy to berate
When I dream of roses
All the while he dozes.
No, partnered is no guarantee
Of champagne and brie.
Nor even of getting laid tonight.
Single or married, we can all agree
Valentine’s Day is oh, so trite.
Sandy
Glad I am when Valentine’s Day passes,
A day fit for camels, and donkeys, and asses.
Roses shed petals, they droop and they slump,
Department store chocolates stay on the rump.
Candy hearts with rude sayings beneath
Are carcinogen-laden, and will break your teeth.
After some thought, I have now come to grips
That Cupid’s arrows have poison-dart brew on their tips.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
My Ride of Passage
I didn’t know she was a prostitute. I don’t to this day, to tell you the truth. All I knew was there was a lady in distress and, damn it, I’m a gentleman.
I was headed to my grandmother’s house to do my laundry. I was in my 20s, and a grandmother’s house is the best place to do your wash when you’re that age. If luck is on your side, a grandmother might provide wash-’n’-fold service while you are going through the fridge and watching her cable.
So I was garbed up in sweats and a tie dye because, deep down, I’m some sort of counter-cultural, hippy troublemaker out to stick it to the man. And, since I didn’t have any clean drawers (on my way to do laundry, remember?) I went commando. ’Cause that’s just the kind of rough-and-tumble maverick I am. Grrr!
Just at the entrance of my subdivision, right by the bus stop, an anxious young lady frantically flagged me down. I can never turn my back on a frantic young woman. It’s a character flaw.
“Oh … are you going up to Glenwood? Could you give me a ride up to the Mrs. Winners up on the corner of Austin and Glenwood?” Now you can get a Street View of my neighborhood from Googlemaps and you’ll know why she was so anxious.
The bus must be late, she was obviously in a hurry and I was going right by there on my way to the Interstate, anyway. What harm? What harm, indeed.
“Hop in!” I said.
She got in.
She was a skinny black chick, might have had orange hair. Heck, it’s my story ... she had orange hair. She had an unsavory – one might say “used” – body odor not quite masked by the cinnamon gum she rolled around her mouth like a particularly beloved cud. I don’t like cinnamon.
She was definitely not Penthouse material. Waffle House? Maybe. Whore house? Sure. Nut house? Without a doubt. But not Penthouse. She couldn't even have made the back page of Hustler if she stuffed her bra and won the lottery.
She did have a nice set of choppers, though. Must have just had her teeth floated. When she smiled, you could barely see the back where the bit goes.
“Oh … Thank you!” she said, “Oh … I was at that house on the corner and they wanted me to do things. Nasty things. Things with their dog. And I don’t do that stuff.”
I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I was thinking along the lines of, “Nice day, isn’t it? I like a day when it’s nice, don’t you? Nice days are good. It’s good to be nice.” But I recovered quickly. I’ve been around, after all. I’ve lived in New York. I’ve seen things.
“Not an animal lover, are you?” I asked. I’m smooth like that.
I stepped on the gas a little.
“Oh … thank you so much for stopping,” she said as suggestively as you could say such a thing. Then she reached over and touched my pee-pee. Right through my sweats where you could feel every contour. Real friendly girl. But I couldn’t have that. Not on laundry day. And we were driving by a church for God’s sake!
We made it to the Mrs. Winners in relative silence. I really didn’t know what to talk about after that. My thoughts were for the future. After all … she touched my pee-pee. I had to marry her now, didn’t I?
I stopped the car. This is where we part, mon cherie, I thought. Of all the cars in all of the world, you had to hop into mine. Farewell.
“Can you take me up to Columbia?” she asked, skankily.
Sigh. Only one major intersection over. In the opposite direction from the Interstate, but in the interest of goodwill, I thought it would do no harm. This was my first prostitute, after all, and I wanted to make a good impression.
So, now we’re at Glenwood and Columbia. Google it. It gets worse as you head toward town. Maybe you can see the Atlanta skyline from the Street View. Pretty, isn’t it?
Not from where I was sitting.
I looked for a nice, warm, whore-friendly place to pull over – a nice corner with lots of Southern exposure – when she asks to go to the *next* major intersection.
I’m so nice.
At Glenwood and Candler (Google *that* one!), she wants to go further. Wants me to take her “some place” to meet “somebody.”
Something in the back of my naïve little head said, “Danger. Drive no more.” So I pulled into the first driveway I found. She got out and ran without so much as a “By Your Leave” and didn’t look back.
She might have known the neighborhood better than I did. I didn’t know until later that I had pulled into a Police Station.
That was years ago. But sometimes, on cold winter nights, I wonder, where did she want me to go? Who did she want me to meet? And would she touch my pee-pee again?
__________
Thanks, Cog, for helping me work through my pain. That’s the most action that little Plymouth Duster ever saw. Next time ask me why I can’t eat tuna.
I was headed to my grandmother’s house to do my laundry. I was in my 20s, and a grandmother’s house is the best place to do your wash when you’re that age. If luck is on your side, a grandmother might provide wash-’n’-fold service while you are going through the fridge and watching her cable.
So I was garbed up in sweats and a tie dye because, deep down, I’m some sort of counter-cultural, hippy troublemaker out to stick it to the man. And, since I didn’t have any clean drawers (on my way to do laundry, remember?) I went commando. ’Cause that’s just the kind of rough-and-tumble maverick I am. Grrr!
Just at the entrance of my subdivision, right by the bus stop, an anxious young lady frantically flagged me down. I can never turn my back on a frantic young woman. It’s a character flaw.
“Oh … are you going up to Glenwood? Could you give me a ride up to the Mrs. Winners up on the corner of Austin and Glenwood?” Now you can get a Street View of my neighborhood from Googlemaps and you’ll know why she was so anxious.
The bus must be late, she was obviously in a hurry and I was going right by there on my way to the Interstate, anyway. What harm? What harm, indeed.
“Hop in!” I said.
She got in.
She was a skinny black chick, might have had orange hair. Heck, it’s my story ... she had orange hair. She had an unsavory – one might say “used” – body odor not quite masked by the cinnamon gum she rolled around her mouth like a particularly beloved cud. I don’t like cinnamon.
She was definitely not Penthouse material. Waffle House? Maybe. Whore house? Sure. Nut house? Without a doubt. But not Penthouse. She couldn't even have made the back page of Hustler if she stuffed her bra and won the lottery.
She did have a nice set of choppers, though. Must have just had her teeth floated. When she smiled, you could barely see the back where the bit goes.
“Oh … Thank you!” she said, “Oh … I was at that house on the corner and they wanted me to do things. Nasty things. Things with their dog. And I don’t do that stuff.”
I’ll admit, I was taken aback for a moment. I was thinking along the lines of, “Nice day, isn’t it? I like a day when it’s nice, don’t you? Nice days are good. It’s good to be nice.” But I recovered quickly. I’ve been around, after all. I’ve lived in New York. I’ve seen things.
“Not an animal lover, are you?” I asked. I’m smooth like that.
I stepped on the gas a little.
“Oh … thank you so much for stopping,” she said as suggestively as you could say such a thing. Then she reached over and touched my pee-pee. Right through my sweats where you could feel every contour. Real friendly girl. But I couldn’t have that. Not on laundry day. And we were driving by a church for God’s sake!
We made it to the Mrs. Winners in relative silence. I really didn’t know what to talk about after that. My thoughts were for the future. After all … she touched my pee-pee. I had to marry her now, didn’t I?
I stopped the car. This is where we part, mon cherie, I thought. Of all the cars in all of the world, you had to hop into mine. Farewell.
“Can you take me up to Columbia?” she asked, skankily.
Sigh. Only one major intersection over. In the opposite direction from the Interstate, but in the interest of goodwill, I thought it would do no harm. This was my first prostitute, after all, and I wanted to make a good impression.
So, now we’re at Glenwood and Columbia. Google it. It gets worse as you head toward town. Maybe you can see the Atlanta skyline from the Street View. Pretty, isn’t it?
Not from where I was sitting.
I looked for a nice, warm, whore-friendly place to pull over – a nice corner with lots of Southern exposure – when she asks to go to the *next* major intersection.
I’m so nice.
At Glenwood and Candler (Google *that* one!), she wants to go further. Wants me to take her “some place” to meet “somebody.”
Something in the back of my naïve little head said, “Danger. Drive no more.” So I pulled into the first driveway I found. She got out and ran without so much as a “By Your Leave” and didn’t look back.
She might have known the neighborhood better than I did. I didn’t know until later that I had pulled into a Police Station.
That was years ago. But sometimes, on cold winter nights, I wonder, where did she want me to go? Who did she want me to meet? And would she touch my pee-pee again?
__________
Thanks, Cog, for helping me work through my pain. That’s the most action that little Plymouth Duster ever saw. Next time ask me why I can’t eat tuna.
Monday, January 5, 2009
A Little Verse for Wear
Despite being a crappy year overall, bringing in large part misery, destitution and hopelessness, we still managed to reach great heights of creativity, thanks to you, my e-friends. We even joined forces on several occasions to produce profound, poetic dialog expressing our suffering, our joy and our inebriation.
With the kind permission of the authors, I present them here in one convenient location. Come with me as we remember 2008 in verse.
_____
October 4
In late September, I was stung by a hornet and posted an account of my experience – complete with video. My Australian friend, RinklyRimes, read it on The Bobliotheque, where I write as ReidAndwright. She responded with this verse:
Oh dear! Reid cannot play the cornet!
He’s been bitten by a hornet.
He was on his way to play
But at home he had to stay.
“Come at once!” The leader cried
“Without the cornet we’ve no pride!
Without the twiddly bits you play
We’ll be laughing-stock today.”
“I’ll send you a video of my arm!
That hornet did me lots of harm!”
“Wear a bandage and a sling!
We need you like anything!”
So brave Reid struggled and did his best
And the orchestra passed the test!
Which doesn’t make much sense I know!
But I just thought I would say ‘Hallo!’
I respond:Hornet, you don’t know with whom you’re dealing.
Bite me again! This time with feeling!
I don’t mind the pain, the swelling …
Go ahead, it’s your death bell knelling!
That sting will be your final gaffe;
This verse will be your epitaph.
Now old Reid can play his horn
And forget the sting that tragic morn.
And, though he died before his time,
The bug lives on in Rinkly’s rhyme.
Thanks for stopping to share your poem.
I squashed the bug. Now, that’ll show ’im.
October 22
Sandy posted the following on her blog and drew me into her fairy-tale world:
Frogs don’t become princes
the moment they’re kissed;
Prince Charming’s not real.
He doesn’t exist.
The mythical knight
Who sets bosoms aflutter
Just might not like you
As much as his mother,
If he holds you close
And begs you to stay,
He might be married,
He’s probably gay.
If he pledges his troth
And vows to be true
He’s likely to have other
Girlfriends than you.
Though you’d swear to the heavens
He’s a prince born and bred,
He’s not Prince Charming
But Charles instead.
Which prompted:
And what of the princess?
Pray tell me that.
She’s brassy and needy
And vulgar and fat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
Hey! Are you there?”
“Not tonight, Charming,
I’m doing my hair!”
And what of that beauty
Asleep, white as snow?
Kiss her awake?
“No” always means “No.”
And that peasant girl
With slippers of glass?
She came in a pumpkin …
She ain’t got no class.
Even that Mouse!
I don’t care who you are …
I’d still chat her up
At the ol’ Minnie bar.
O! Where is that girl?
I know what sells!
I can’t wait no more,
I’ve got Disney spells.
So I can’t get a date
With a girl on a whim.
There’s plenty of fish …
It’s not all that Grimm.
I thought your verse
Was a little bit slanted.
It’s not just the guys …
Girls, too, are enchanted.
November 6
Late one night – on the East Coast, anyway – Lucky posted a lovely blog in verse:
My Page was old
it had to go
I have some stories yet untold
Of Maternal woe
and Teenage foe
and Republicans who are so slow
I need to write
of all my plights
and be creative in the nights
And light and funny
I shall be
with all my typed verbosity
The pressure’s on
soon comes the dawn
I’ll dream of punchlines on the lawn
My hat is old
my teeth are gold
for now my story
is yet all told. ...
I’m pledging to write more blogs and soon. ...
It’s been awhile. …
Go look at the moon!
Exhausted, I posted what I thought would be the end of that night’s exchange and bring welcome sleep:
This one sits at a bar
This one has a little scar.
This one … I don’t know what you are.
Oh, what a lot of blogs there are.
I should try to get some sleep.
Maybe I should count some sheep.
Oh, why do I stay up so late?
One more blog ... it’s worth the wait!
It’s one a.m. and, what the deuce?
I’m sitting, writing like Dr. Seuss.
I hate to sit and waste a rhyme,
But, what the hell, it’s on your dime.
So, I’ll cruise along on this course,
Encourage dialogue and discourse.
If you don’t like what I have to say,
I’ll change my mind. What the hay?
But when SueFancypants – wide awake on the other side of the world – came back with this, I knew sleep would elude me:
There’s no moon out here
So while I wait
I shall have another beer
And I’ll sing an Aussie song
so my waiting won’t seem so bloody long...
Waltzing Matilda
Somebody killed her
Found her in the grass
with a stick up her arse
I couldn’t resist:
Poor Matilda and her arse.
That Jolly Swagman, what a farce!
He didn’t know what could go wrong
When he grabbed her by the billabong!
He got her jumbuck, then he toiled
In its fleece. His Billy boiled.
With a sneer and scornful frown
She didn’t half tie his kangaroo down.
Matilda, damn! She’s on the rag.
She grabbed him by the tucker bag.
You’ve got to give Matilda cred ...
His foreskin’s nailed upon the shed!
Swagman said, “Now, what the deuce?
“Won’t someone come and cut me loose?”
And his cry may be heard as sweet as angels’ choirs
“Won’t somebody please come and bring me some pliers?”
December 16
Just as we were all doing our last-minute Christmas shopping and baking, my friend Cog’s Nisant was having a bad day, so did what any true friend would do. I offered to recite Chaucer and cheer her up. Alas, she said hers was more of a Poe mood, so I did the next best thing:
I know you’re nodding, nearly napping
So I’ll tread gently, not too loud.
What is that? A gift you’re wrapping?
Not for me! I’m Poe, but I’m still proud.
Cog, always sharp as a tack, didn’t miss a beat:
There I sat all weak and weary,
Finishing the last cold beer-y,
Scanning channels through eyes tired and teary
When suddenly there came a rapping.
Violently knuckles tapping,
Pounding on my chamber door.
Tis some idiot and nothing more.
As I lectured on visiting hours,
He presented me with flowers,
Only daisies – what a bore!
He sat there begging for affection
Barely hiding his erection.
He was here with plans to score.
To our relationship he was no devotee,
And I demanded he leave me,
Else he be an amputee.
He wants a whore and nothing more.
Which, in turn, engendered:
Ah, the silken, sad uncertain rustling
Of each Christmas wrapper bustling
To – wait! – you strike me to the core!
I knew I should not be pushing daisies,
But I was tired and late and lazy!
I see you’ve been down this road before.
So I turned ’way, my flowers wilted.
Spurned and scorned, rejected, jilted.
And so I sought some seamy whore,
Swearing, sotto voce, “Nevermore.”
That’s the saddest thing you ever saw, sir.
I told you we should stick with Chaucer.
_____
These were the highlight of my year! Thanks y’all, I had fun and I look forward to more collaboration in 2009. Let's see if we can popularize a new kind of blog. The Blog Poem, or Blow ’em.
With the kind permission of the authors, I present them here in one convenient location. Come with me as we remember 2008 in verse.
_____
October 4
In late September, I was stung by a hornet and posted an account of my experience – complete with video. My Australian friend, RinklyRimes, read it on The Bobliotheque, where I write as ReidAndwright. She responded with this verse:
Oh dear! Reid cannot play the cornet!
He’s been bitten by a hornet.
He was on his way to play
But at home he had to stay.
“Come at once!” The leader cried
“Without the cornet we’ve no pride!
Without the twiddly bits you play
We’ll be laughing-stock today.”
“I’ll send you a video of my arm!
That hornet did me lots of harm!”
“Wear a bandage and a sling!
We need you like anything!”
So brave Reid struggled and did his best
And the orchestra passed the test!
Which doesn’t make much sense I know!
But I just thought I would say ‘Hallo!’
I respond:Hornet, you don’t know with whom you’re dealing.
Bite me again! This time with feeling!
I don’t mind the pain, the swelling …
Go ahead, it’s your death bell knelling!
That sting will be your final gaffe;
This verse will be your epitaph.
Now old Reid can play his horn
And forget the sting that tragic morn.
And, though he died before his time,
The bug lives on in Rinkly’s rhyme.
Thanks for stopping to share your poem.
I squashed the bug. Now, that’ll show ’im.
October 22
Sandy posted the following on her blog and drew me into her fairy-tale world:
Frogs don’t become princes
the moment they’re kissed;
Prince Charming’s not real.
He doesn’t exist.
The mythical knight
Who sets bosoms aflutter
Just might not like you
As much as his mother,
If he holds you close
And begs you to stay,
He might be married,
He’s probably gay.
If he pledges his troth
And vows to be true
He’s likely to have other
Girlfriends than you.
Though you’d swear to the heavens
He’s a prince born and bred,
He’s not Prince Charming
But Charles instead.
Which prompted:
And what of the princess?
Pray tell me that.
She’s brassy and needy
And vulgar and fat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel!
Hey! Are you there?”
“Not tonight, Charming,
I’m doing my hair!”
And what of that beauty
Asleep, white as snow?
Kiss her awake?
“No” always means “No.”
And that peasant girl
With slippers of glass?
She came in a pumpkin …
She ain’t got no class.
Even that Mouse!
I don’t care who you are …
I’d still chat her up
At the ol’ Minnie bar.
O! Where is that girl?
I know what sells!
I can’t wait no more,
I’ve got Disney spells.
So I can’t get a date
With a girl on a whim.
There’s plenty of fish …
It’s not all that Grimm.
I thought your verse
Was a little bit slanted.
It’s not just the guys …
Girls, too, are enchanted.
November 6
Late one night – on the East Coast, anyway – Lucky posted a lovely blog in verse:
My Page was old
it had to go
I have some stories yet untold
Of Maternal woe
and Teenage foe
and Republicans who are so slow
I need to write
of all my plights
and be creative in the nights
And light and funny
I shall be
with all my typed verbosity
The pressure’s on
soon comes the dawn
I’ll dream of punchlines on the lawn
My hat is old
my teeth are gold
for now my story
is yet all told. ...
I’m pledging to write more blogs and soon. ...
It’s been awhile. …
Go look at the moon!
Exhausted, I posted what I thought would be the end of that night’s exchange and bring welcome sleep:
This one sits at a bar
This one has a little scar.
This one … I don’t know what you are.
Oh, what a lot of blogs there are.
I should try to get some sleep.
Maybe I should count some sheep.
Oh, why do I stay up so late?
One more blog ... it’s worth the wait!
It’s one a.m. and, what the deuce?
I’m sitting, writing like Dr. Seuss.
I hate to sit and waste a rhyme,
But, what the hell, it’s on your dime.
So, I’ll cruise along on this course,
Encourage dialogue and discourse.
If you don’t like what I have to say,
I’ll change my mind. What the hay?
But when SueFancypants – wide awake on the other side of the world – came back with this, I knew sleep would elude me:
There’s no moon out here
So while I wait
I shall have another beer
And I’ll sing an Aussie song
so my waiting won’t seem so bloody long...
Waltzing Matilda
Somebody killed her
Found her in the grass
with a stick up her arse
I couldn’t resist:
Poor Matilda and her arse.
That Jolly Swagman, what a farce!
He didn’t know what could go wrong
When he grabbed her by the billabong!
He got her jumbuck, then he toiled
In its fleece. His Billy boiled.
With a sneer and scornful frown
She didn’t half tie his kangaroo down.
Matilda, damn! She’s on the rag.
She grabbed him by the tucker bag.
You’ve got to give Matilda cred ...
His foreskin’s nailed upon the shed!
Swagman said, “Now, what the deuce?
“Won’t someone come and cut me loose?”
And his cry may be heard as sweet as angels’ choirs
“Won’t somebody please come and bring me some pliers?”
December 16
Just as we were all doing our last-minute Christmas shopping and baking, my friend Cog’s Nisant was having a bad day, so did what any true friend would do. I offered to recite Chaucer and cheer her up. Alas, she said hers was more of a Poe mood, so I did the next best thing:
I know you’re nodding, nearly napping
So I’ll tread gently, not too loud.
What is that? A gift you’re wrapping?
Not for me! I’m Poe, but I’m still proud.
Cog, always sharp as a tack, didn’t miss a beat:
There I sat all weak and weary,
Finishing the last cold beer-y,
Scanning channels through eyes tired and teary
When suddenly there came a rapping.
Violently knuckles tapping,
Pounding on my chamber door.
Tis some idiot and nothing more.
As I lectured on visiting hours,
He presented me with flowers,
Only daisies – what a bore!
He sat there begging for affection
Barely hiding his erection.
He was here with plans to score.
To our relationship he was no devotee,
And I demanded he leave me,
Else he be an amputee.
He wants a whore and nothing more.
Which, in turn, engendered:
Ah, the silken, sad uncertain rustling
Of each Christmas wrapper bustling
To – wait! – you strike me to the core!
I knew I should not be pushing daisies,
But I was tired and late and lazy!
I see you’ve been down this road before.
So I turned ’way, my flowers wilted.
Spurned and scorned, rejected, jilted.
And so I sought some seamy whore,
Swearing, sotto voce, “Nevermore.”
That’s the saddest thing you ever saw, sir.
I told you we should stick with Chaucer.
_____
These were the highlight of my year! Thanks y’all, I had fun and I look forward to more collaboration in 2009. Let's see if we can popularize a new kind of blog. The Blog Poem, or Blow ’em.
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