This is a tribute to my old boss (AKA The Hall Monitor).
Now, I'm not a poet by any means; in fact, I suck at it. I've made grown men cry with my poetry - and not in a good way. I don’t do iambic pentameter, couplets, sonnets, haikus, limericks. However, that doesn't mean I don't like to torture my readers (or Nettie, since she's the only one who reads this thing) every now and then. Read with caution...and try not to wince too much. My ego can only take so much abuse.
Grog, The Underling Beast of WayCennor Wood
Listen closely, children, and listen well,
This be the cautionary story to tell,
Of a beastly ogre with features so foul,
His misshapen face elicits a terrified yowl.
Around the bend and over the hedge,
Pass the highway and your grandmother’s ledge,
Under the garbage and a hobo’s distaste,
Beyond the horizon and into sewage and waste,
There lies the deep forest of WayCennor Wood,
Dark and fetid with the stink of deprived childhood,
And within its deep bowels, a monster awaits
To cut you to ribbons and your pride to degrade,
Like discarded dough mulch, his face is malformed,
With a bulbous nose, and eyes quite transformed,
His gaze is beastly and lustful and raw,
And his teeth razor sharp in his big gaping maw,
He targets the small, their names he impugns,
With hamhock arms and the wit of buffoons,
With legs like tree trunks, he stumbles about,
To step on the innocent, the kind, and devout,
Grog is his name, and prideful is he,
Of the nest he has made, with a family of three,
On the backs of his charges, he gained his riches,
And riding a Porsche, towards douchebaggery he inches,
Under the guise of great might, he lays his attack,
But in the face of true power, he stumbles off track,
When faced with a foe greater than he,
He lays on his back and sells himself eagerly,
Grog the deformed ogre, a hated beast indeed,
A bully, a coward, and a veritable stinkweed,
When the earth turns over and the evil lay slain,
Grog the ogre will be writhing with pain,
For it never pays to be a pollution on earth,
Better for Grog to have passed in stillbirth,
For as long as he lives, he will be debased,
And never rise above being a pansy shirtwaist.
(If you ever read this...you know who you are, Grog! You know!)
I've got a limerick for ya in the same vain, my friend-- just for you!
ReplyDeleteThere once was a man from T.O.,
Whose manner was crudely low,
He set fire to souls,
Where his is who knows,
To Hades he'll certainly go!
Or maybe a modern poem, a la Carl Sandburg (influenced by The Sphinx and A Coin).
ReplyDeleteHe is, To Us:
It. Thing. Revulsion.
She is, To Him:
Object. Lust. Stylist.
Open-mouthed, breathing heavily, he sat five-thousand years, never blinking, yearning for her Erotic E. To open.
But He is, To Her:
A bald spot.
A spot.
Of nothing.
(Poetry rocks)
EW.
ReplyDeleteI never want the word "erotic" and this person to be written on the same page. Ever. I mean, never ever ever!!!!!!!
Oh, my brain cries.
:-O I didn't do it. He did. Dribbling salad all over the pristine white tablecloth and mouthing off words like "erotic." He should be hanged.
ReplyDeleteDefinitely no plea here, only a furious demand: Leave my baby alone Grog!
ReplyDeleteMethinks you should go into WayCennor Wood and beat the CRAP out of Grog with your surgical precision and raging Fists of Fury!
ReplyDelete