| |
He was not born a smart or gifted boy
yet enfamil instilled in him a drive,
they switched him later to the milk of soy
and watched the nastiness of greed arrive.
He grew, the body more than his small mind,
and slithered through the dramas of a school.
No teacher noticed that the boy was blind
but classmates saw the pimples of a fool.
They let him graduate, the system stank,
it traded subsidies for small IQ's,
his mother's lover placed him in the bank
but he was fired when they found the booze.
Then came the army, where he did excel
due to insomnia he would always be
the very first to hear the morning bell
and reach the roof with a small stream of pee.
Well, then they let him go because he switched
the polished boots of compadres in arms,
it was the army nurse who saw and snitched,
he tried in vain to rouse her inner charms.
He married then, the niece of Mr. Woo
who owned a feedlot in the outer sticks.
But when they caught him eating bovine pooh
he was admitted, back in eighty-six.
Due to his facial features which were sad
he hooked himself to one strange monkeyface,
she was, as they soon found, equally mad
and lacked in superoxide dismutase.
He found his niche he thought with IBM,
they taught him how to tap on little keys
and soon he was to play ad hominem
telling the world about its Q's and P's.
It was so sad to see the fellow fail!
He stood for nothing which was really it,
one day a letter came through express mail
he found inside the written word of shit.
It scared the living daylights out of him,
he called some army buddies on the phone,
then, stupid as he was and on a whim
he bought the antidote, eau de cologne.
And then he lectured to the infidels
about the dangers of a single word,
about the commie tricks of rotten smells,
now, on the soapbox, he was surely heard.
Then something happened that I need to share:
the world at large laughed really, really loud
because they'd seen that in his underwear
a presence lingered like a brownish cloud.
'You are so full of it', they chanted now
I must admit, a novel, fresh direction
had taken place to show the idiot how
a word, slightly lacking in perfection
would only scare the world of imbeciles.
And that was it, they locked him in the cell
next to the feedlot where they had ten miles
of little houses that produced great smells.
So now you know and I do give my word
what will befall a human hypocrite.
He will be known himself just as a turd
and forced to live with it, the word is SHIT.
Herbert Nehrlich
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10
(0 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend