I homecome bearing a photorealistic portrait of the gator I glimpsed on my trip. His mouth was open to kiss, not kill; his hands were raised to fondle me and his claws were flexed to comb my hair, but my jagoff husband prevented me from leaping out of the car and into his embrace. O gator, turn the tables and make a living purse of me!Saturday, November 17, 2007
RECRUDESCENCE
I homecome bearing a photorealistic portrait of the gator I glimpsed on my trip. His mouth was open to kiss, not kill; his hands were raised to fondle me and his claws were flexed to comb my hair, but my jagoff husband prevented me from leaping out of the car and into his embrace. O gator, turn the tables and make a living purse of me!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
9 comments:
He thought he was singing,
Dispelling your clouds:
"O give me a tickle
At the roots of my pickle
And I'll put a few coins in your purse--
We'll embrace with a thud
And go dwell in the mud,
I am sure you could do a lot worse!"
(To the tune, of course, of "Home on the Range")
So don't be so mean,
You will love pissing green,
And the swamp's an endurable curse.
I've been trying to sing all that to the tune of "Home on the Range" for minutes now, and it just isn't working.
You are shedding, my dear,
Big crocodile tears.
But it's an alligator thing,
Wherein swish your tail
Violently, and just sing!
These nursery rhyme rhythms are quite a departure for you. Have I at last inspired you to cowboy poetry?
A DONKEY OF THE APOCALYPSE
I have of late, I know not wherefore
Lost all my mirth. This reflects, in part,
A growing weariness at failing to assuage
The wary’s coiled razor-wire defenses
Which so relentlessly confront Anonymous.
Also there’s his alter ego’s abrupt
Disgust with his pompous poem’s opinion
On electric guitars and troubadours,
And therefore Anonymous chose refuge–
Another partial excuse–in the sing-song
Jingling of a cowboy berceuse,
Entrusting himself to those harmonica reeds
And transparent hands that can seize
At least the skeleton keys of the rain.
SYBIL
Seduced by Zeus who promised
Eternal life (not youth),
And thought love-making
Was like stuffing a turkey, Sybil
Slithered from her bottle,
Dry now as beef jerky,
And whispered hoarsely, her mind
Still dazzled by divinity’s
Gross lightning,
“I want to die!
That's more like it! I had something else to say, but a violent sneeze just brought my brains down through my nose Egyptian-style and I have no idea what it was.
damn jagoff husbands! get well soon mistress t.
*balls her tiny fists*
Post a Comment