Post by MoonyLuna on Feb 25, 2009 11:38:40 GMT -5
A sports writer complained to Joe Louis about another boxer who didn't like
to take punches to the body. Louis replied, "Who do?"
Mon Dieu, said the Hindoo, I don't want to stop drinking. Who do?
But sometimes you have to put down your glass so you
can pick it up for another round. At the University Ladies' Tea
with the pill-popping dean's wife and Marxist shrews,
you don't want to talk to them or anyone else. Who do?
But like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady you say
How do you do, call on Andrew Marvell and George Herbert
to rescue you, but you draw the short straw,
and there's Julie Andrews in The Sound if Music with her igloo
smile and Christmas sweater. You are the Sioux
in this cavalry charge, and you need some firewater pronto,
gin and lighter fluid or a gun, but that's so American,
and who would you shoot but yourself, so you try to spin some voodoo
around this vampire soirée. Where are the chicken bones
and bat fangs when you need them, Miss Nancy Drew?
Face facts, you don't have a clue. Let me preview
my upcoming bout of spinal meningitis for you,
or shall I invoke Bob Dylan, mathematician and Hebrew
troubadour, for I am tangled up in glue or something like it, goo
or ooze. If I were a cow, I'd be bigger than I am, say moo
and pray to Shiva, but as it is, I am a fourth-rate kangaroo
praying for rescue in a bottle, my mind a zoo,
a giraffe popping out my left ear, a zebra out my right. Whew,
that hurt, but so much does these days. Much Ado
About Nothing, that's my play, Beatrice and crew. Let's review.
Everything I adore is either forbidden to me or taboo,
which is pretty much the same thing. O Alice, I grew
an inch with that one, or was it my nose? Hey, Pinocchio, you
want me to chop you for firewood? Who do? Wait, I have a few
things to say about hue. I'm orange but, carissimo, you
are as blue as you were the day Picasso, or was it Braque, drew
you in Montmartre in the Bateau Lavoir, and now that my shoe
is wedged in my mouth again and my underpants askew,
I'll take this opportunity to bid you an affectionate adieu.
Parting is such sweet sorrow that I would pitch some woo
with you till next Wednesday; O Shiva, the queue
to your divine brain is teeming with supplicants, so in lieu
of the old one-two, I'll sign off. Something nasty just blew
in from Kazakhstan, and my electric bill's twenty years overdue.
Mirror, mirror on the wall—Oh, God, not you.
Copyright
Barbara Hamby
to take punches to the body. Louis replied, "Who do?"
Mon Dieu, said the Hindoo, I don't want to stop drinking. Who do?
But sometimes you have to put down your glass so you
can pick it up for another round. At the University Ladies' Tea
with the pill-popping dean's wife and Marxist shrews,
you don't want to talk to them or anyone else. Who do?
But like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady you say
How do you do, call on Andrew Marvell and George Herbert
to rescue you, but you draw the short straw,
and there's Julie Andrews in The Sound if Music with her igloo
smile and Christmas sweater. You are the Sioux
in this cavalry charge, and you need some firewater pronto,
gin and lighter fluid or a gun, but that's so American,
and who would you shoot but yourself, so you try to spin some voodoo
around this vampire soirée. Where are the chicken bones
and bat fangs when you need them, Miss Nancy Drew?
Face facts, you don't have a clue. Let me preview
my upcoming bout of spinal meningitis for you,
or shall I invoke Bob Dylan, mathematician and Hebrew
troubadour, for I am tangled up in glue or something like it, goo
or ooze. If I were a cow, I'd be bigger than I am, say moo
and pray to Shiva, but as it is, I am a fourth-rate kangaroo
praying for rescue in a bottle, my mind a zoo,
a giraffe popping out my left ear, a zebra out my right. Whew,
that hurt, but so much does these days. Much Ado
About Nothing, that's my play, Beatrice and crew. Let's review.
Everything I adore is either forbidden to me or taboo,
which is pretty much the same thing. O Alice, I grew
an inch with that one, or was it my nose? Hey, Pinocchio, you
want me to chop you for firewood? Who do? Wait, I have a few
things to say about hue. I'm orange but, carissimo, you
are as blue as you were the day Picasso, or was it Braque, drew
you in Montmartre in the Bateau Lavoir, and now that my shoe
is wedged in my mouth again and my underpants askew,
I'll take this opportunity to bid you an affectionate adieu.
Parting is such sweet sorrow that I would pitch some woo
with you till next Wednesday; O Shiva, the queue
to your divine brain is teeming with supplicants, so in lieu
of the old one-two, I'll sign off. Something nasty just blew
in from Kazakhstan, and my electric bill's twenty years overdue.
Mirror, mirror on the wall—Oh, God, not you.
Copyright
Barbara Hamby