The Sorrows of The Mediocre

Poor poor Ralphie was a man
Who spent his life an also-ran
And though he tried with all his might
The ‘almost perfect but not quite’
Was heard as a nonstop refrain
And soon to be his sad life’s bane

School passed by predictably
With his average solid B
Involved in sports but to his nettle
His room adorned with silver medals
He never made the football team
Or dated the homecoming queen

He settled with a decent gal
But thought her more a sort of pal
Though long of leg and slim of waist
Just something off about her face
And so she joined him for the ride
And she too bridesmaid never bride

And Ralph he wrote though not the best
He cursed his marginal success
At wisdom some found somewhat sage
Though buried on an obscure page
But all that found it surely would
Agree that it was ‘pretty good’

And so with all his life to shoulder
The sorrows of the mediocre
He found himself long in the tooth
And simply figured what’s the use
“I never will find fame or wealth
I might as well just off myself

Perhaps when they call me ‘the late’
These silly fools will think I’m great”
And so after a few events
Which ended up as failed attempts
Ralphie took his final bow
Though none really remember how

But as he went heavenward soaring
Happy to see the whole world mourning
In aftermath of his sad death
To heaven’s gate with arms outstretched
Angels with their golden books
Gazed towards him with beatific looks

But as he reached St. Peter’s side
They merely told him step aside
And so he became quite downhearted
When he saw why those gates parted
He would have waited if he’d known he’d
Die on the same day as Bowie.

'If you couldn't get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?'

‘If you couldn’t get into clubs, what makes you think you can get in here?’

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I Sold My Soul To The Devil And Now He Wants A Refund

I had been here before, a long time ago,
Where I knew he would appear again,
He said “I see you are ready to do some bargaining,
What will it be this time my friend?
I can grant you all the best things in life,
Money and clothes so fine,
A voice like a dove, fingers of gold,
If only your soul would be mine.”

And so a life I lead so amazing,
I could scarcely believe,
Knowing all the time what was awaiting me,
For what I had achieved.
When came the day of reckoning,
And down to the pit I would descend,
Waiting to suffer for all eternity,
The price I would pay in the end.

And the heat it was hot, and the people were mean,
And the days were full of torture and pain,
So I thought I’d go directly to Satan himself every day,
To bitterly complain.
I said, “How do you put up with this heat?”
I said “The people here really suck!”
I said “My soul is worth more than this!
This is no kind of deal, now I’m stuck!”

And the devil he tried to avoid me,
But I can be pretty persistent,
He said, “Look lady, a deals a deal.”
But I became very insistent.
Until one day steam came from his ears,
And his horns began to twitch,
And he called among the highest orders,
“Save me from this bitch!”

He said I could keep my money,
He said I could keep my fancy home,
He said I could keep the all the fineries,
If I’d just leave him alone.
And he looked up to the heavens and said,
“You want her? Come retrieve her!”
But I guess it was no small surprise,
They didn’t want me either.

And they even pointed to the fine print,
And said “The deals been done,
No refunds or exchanges after 30 days,
And it’s been 31.”
So there was only one thing left to do,
To stick me in a private suite,
Roomy and air conditioned,
Nothing short of heavenly.

And at my insistence, a sign on the door,
Of the digs where I would eternally dwell,
‘The devil’s finally met his match,
This bitch sure can raise some hell!”

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/build-your-own/

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Purgatory Of Verse

They litter my mind like so many proverbial
balled up scraps of paper,

Words that I peruse again and again,
whether to discard or to savor,

I can send them to heaven’s gate
of sublime publication,

Or discard them to the trash, sentenced
to hellish damnation,

And though one may be better,
perhaps neither is worse,

Than to be fated to sit endlessly
in the purgatory of verse.

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http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/leftovers/