Script Frenzy Twenty-Twelve has gone
Like grass from an unwatered lawn.
My College Play was barely born
And won’t grow up before the morn.
The play’s not dead: I’ll finish yet
(Take that as promise or as threat),
But April’s output literary
Went to something much more scary:
One part of a pending book
For which triathlon’s the hook
And my tale’s, say, the worm’s hind end
Through which the reader bait’s been pinned.
So, Flopsy and Elena wait
Onstage until a later date
When I turn my attention back
To giving their shared tale a crack
At closure, which ’til now’s been hid
From them (and me). At least I did
Meet one deadline so far this spring,
And maybe this Tri book’s a thing
About which tens of readers might
Say, someday, “He did something write!”
Remember those toothpaste ads? “Only four cavities!”
That’s me while bicycling: “Only three flats!”
A ride without rapid (repeated) deflation’s
Like Carlsbad Caverns without any bats.
Not that I’m frustrated. On the contrary,
I’m happy to give other riders the chance
To replenish diminished Samaritan coffers
By partnering me in the Not Again! dance.
Accompanied by half the crew,
Lieutenant Christian led the coup
That seized the HMAV Bounty;
Per the Captain’s own account, he
(William Bligh) humiliated
Fletcher Christian, which he hated–
Fletcher, that is, didn’t care
For how Bligh treated him, plus there
Was also that whole marriage thing
That helped him turn against his king
And country: His Tahitian bride
And he were happy ’til he died,
Ironically, in an uprising
Against him, no doubt surprising
Him as much as he had Bligh.
I’m almost sorry for the guy.
Art, Truth, Beauty,
Blah, blah, blah,
Free love– Wait, what?
Free love?!? Aha!
Migratory snails en masse
Obstruct my daughter’s path to class.
The Tardy Office frowns in doubt
As she describes the slimy rout
Of obstamolluscles that made her
Late, and would have made her later
Had not one akarmic car
Compressed the whole escargatoire
And, once recovered from her shock,
She picked her way across the walk
Of dead and dying Gastropods
To placate the attendance gods.
“It’s hard to beat the tardy bell
Encrusted thus in shards of shell!”
She bites her trembling lower lip.
They sigh, and sign her tardy slip.
Ask thirty different fellers what a picture’s worth, they’ll tell ya’
Thirty different prices, based on what they wants to sell ya’.
Doesn’t matter what’s the picture which you’re askin’ after,
Their answer ain’t so much an estimate as image-crafter.
See, they wants to make ya’ think they knows their works of art,
And showin’ off they’s sharp in re the market’s just the start.
Next thing y’ know, they’re tellin’ you how come the value tanked
(Or trebled–not important, either way), and ’til they’re thanked
For sharin’ all their expertise (more “tease” than “expert,” likely),
They’ll bury you in words that end in -ism, -esque, and -iquely.
Twenty-nine’ll lecture like the night’ll never end;
If one replies, “A thousand words,” huzzah! You’ve found a friend.
The cat and dog both ate their food
And didn’t wait for me. How rude!
Don’t they know they’d go without
Those molded silhouettes of trout
And chickens in a dusty clump
Were I not here to scoop and dump?
And yet, each night at suppertime
They’re eager for dessert while I’m
Still trying to decide between
The cheddar cheese or refried bean
To microwave in my tortilla.
Guys? A little– …guys? …’kay, see ya’.