A Fairly True Account Of Last Friday Night

Twas cold and cloudy so outside
Interminable wait
All for my child to perform
The hour it grew late

As I stood there shivering
So slowly passed the time
Suffering untuned guitars
Young children’s off key whines

When suddenly in front of me
My eyes would become locked
The women there before me had
A big bakery box

Which she promptly opened up
Before me she sat down
I saw it boasted the brand name
Of the best place in town

And when my eyes did catch the sight
I broke out in cold sweat
To see colossal layers dripping
In rich chocolate

My mind sped into over drive
With thoughts that would not cease
Of how I would insinuate
Myself to get a piece

But there was nothing I could say
And soon it became clear
That it would be my fate to watch
The whole cake disappear

With such eyerolls of pleasure from
Those who enjoyed it well
So suddenly I realized that
I must have gone to hell

So I dropped down to my knees
With great sorrow and grief
I promised God above I would
Turn over a new leaf

And asked him please to let this night
All just be a bad dream
And ask forgiveness for my sins
My soul to be redeemed

And somehow by some miracle
Damnation was prevented
Though some half eaten pieces left
(Don’t think I wasn’t tempted!!)

So now I try to just do good
And keep myself on track
For I have seen what hell is like
And I ain’t going back

A cold and dreary waiting room
With whining children plenty
And women who eat chocolate cake
And will not give you any

I would like to dedicate this post to Maida at Traversing Lines. I know you were trying to be optimistic but here is what my hellish Friday night was really like!! All for the kids, right?

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Beauty Pageant Saboteur

I gave Ms. Texas dark chocolates
Til she broke out in zits
I told them that Ms. Washington
Had fake silicone tits

I hid Ms. Indiana’s weave
Under the floorboards buried
I sold out poor Ms. Idaho
And told them she was married

I gave Ms. Ohio wheat bread
So she broke out in hives
I told them all Ms. Illinois
Was really 25

I stained Ms. Texas’ evening gown
With red and orange spots
I ratted out Ms. Nebraska
Cause she was smoking pot

I hugged and kissed Ms. Florida
Until her make up smudged
I told them that Ms. Oregon
Was sleeping with a judge

I threw out Ms. Connecticut’s
Depilatory
Found pics of poor Ms. Michigan
Doing pornography

Told Georgia that her talent show
Jokes just weren’t funny
Decapitated Ms. Kentucky’s
Ventriloquist dummy

Went over judge’s questions and
I told them it was clear
That world peace and human rights
Just weren’t in this year

And so it came to judging time
I beat out all the rest
As they became disqualified
I won the whole contest

They talked about my victory
And what would be expected
I was to be a role model
Looked up to and respected

Give uplifting speeches and
Give help to charities
So maybe this whole pageant thing
Just isnt for me

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Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator

I say now wouldn’t it be grand
If we all could form band
Think of what they’ll say in school
They’ll probably think we’re really cool

We’ll go on all kinds of dates
And maybe get to second base
All we need is a cool foursome
And I’ll sing because I’m awesome

No one’s volunteered so far
So you can play the lead guitar
For our rockin’ entourage
If we can jam in your garage

And, what’s that? Can you say ew?
Stephen wants to join up too?
I hear he’s weird and he eats paste
Okay he can play the bass

My little bro rounds out the band
He cries and beats on pots and pans
And besides I’m pretty sure
That he can even count to four

And we’re soon to achieve fame
Once we have a cool band name
Straight from Band Name Generator
‘Stupid of the Shrapnel Elevator’

And now that we’re official rockers
We’ll graffiti the school lockers
Hang in halls without our passes
Refuse to remove our sunglasses

Wear all black and act like rebels
Say that we worship the devil
Bug our moms till they relent
And buy expensive instruments

That will all look really cute
We’ll pose with them in photo shoots
And we’ll be well prepared the day
We actually learn how to play.

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Bubbe Madge

I’ve decided I should get
More in touch with my roots
To visit with my ancestors
In wild days of youth

And capture some of that good old
Inherited black magic
Digging through the boxes that are
Lying in my attic

Perhaps it was delirium
Maybe the mothball smell
But soon standing before me there
My Bubbe Madge herself

No waxing sentimental, no
From that she did refrain
And did what Jewish grandmas do
She started to complain

She asked if I was married yet
She asked me what he did
She asked me whether I had wed
A goyem or a yid

She asked me why it was I wore
Those short skirts like a shiksa
She asked me was I planning to
Get my son Bar Mitzvahed

She talked about her daughters and
She told me that truth
Was that she never really liked
Our poor old Aunt Ruth

She talked about her death and how
They thought it was a schtick
How her tombstone should really say
“I told you I was sick!”

And as she complained on and on
My vision became waves
And right before my very eyes
My Bubbe seemed to fade

And with relief I thought about
What I had heard and seen
And thankfully soon realized that
It had been a bad dream

Until I smelled a distinct smell
I sniffed until I found
A great big pan of kugel there
Upon my looking down

I saw the note she left and knew
My dream was much too real
It read, “Darling you look like you
Could use a decent meal.”

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ICE CREAM!!!!

On high alert near dinner time
The children long to hear
Pop Goes the Weasel softly chimes
It is that time of year

The little kiddies drop their games
And stop dead in mid frolic
And pull their mothers hands and hair
Demanding them their wallet

Tears will come down from their eyes
They’re sure to make a scene
If their demands are not met to
Procure some cheap ice cream

A choco taco ice cream waffle
Sundae in a cup
A Creamsicle, a Popsicle
A Rocket Blast, Push Up

The children fidget, cry and pout
Threaten to kill and worse
As their parents hunt for cash
While muttering a curse

But in my house twas no such luck
My mother did believe
Unhealthy junk to make me fat
But first to rot my teeth

I’d watch a Spongebob disappear
Chipwich become no more
And pray that every flavored ice
Would end up on the floor

For every Drumstick licked to nought
And Dixie Cup’s dead end
But it was not enough for me
I had to have revenge

Yet nothing was so clever as
The fate that I had planned
A plot for ultimate control
I’d BE the ice cream man

And slow down in each neighborhood
As children sang and danced
All so anxious for their treats
With ants in their pants

And see the looks upon their face
As in my truck I’m slowing
I bite into a lemon cup
And then I just keep going

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The Maid

How carefully I polish cracks
Each winding marble stair
All a facade that’s meant to hide
Stains in her underwear

Which counters the impeccably
Dressed woman she’s to be
Behind the doors of messy rooms
That only I can see

Papers, clothes strewn on the floor
As if by one deranged
I put each color coded
Alphabetically arranged

In massive walk in closets
To the space where they belong
And the stiffened towels washed
I dare not touch with tongs

And in the bathroom garbage piles
On top of which does rest
The countless negative results
Of her pregnancy tests

And in the den a stack of bills
To be filed or shredded
An accident yet I take in
The sad state of her credit

And in a strange turn of events
I tell her I did find
An earring on his bathroom floor
She says “that isn’t mine”

But steels herself then to complain
Of rings still in the tub
A spot of lint left on the floor
A toilet not well scrubbed

And so peers down her nose at me
That condescending look
Although perhaps that all will change
When I publish my book

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Une Tempête Merde in Blue

The oil paint on canvas is
So carefully applied
The small runny nosed prodigy
Sits loyal by his side

For every stroke his father makes
The child too will blot
Not acrylics but finger paint
Mixed in with drool and snot

When daddy says “Now run along
And I’ll talk to you later
I’ve an important meeting with
A local art curator.”

The woman walks in to the room
Her eyes become affixed
On artwork that lies on the floor
She says “I must have this!”

“Watercolor? Oil based?
What is the sentiment?”
Does he say it’s a pink cyclops
Paint mixed with excrement?

Excitedly she asks the name
It’s clear she has no clue
He finds the French translation for
‘A Shit Storm in Blue’

But too late she commissions it
As debutantes abound
Displayed in the most prominent
Art gallery in town

Then bought for many thousands it
Is displayed in the hall
Of one of the most reputable
Buildings of them all

Where studied are the abstract shapes
The meaning of the art
Reflections of the tortured soul
The bearings of his heart

And some with eye for keen detail
Will wonder what’s implied
By the green globule that’s smeared
On the upper left side.

This poem was inspired by  a conversation I had with Amy at Petals Unfolding and the post she wrote, where we decided her image of mud on a chair looked like a piece of high class artwork.

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