(T. S. may not be the best choice for who I’m trying to usurp here–but he is the first poet whose name popped into my head)
I have been thinking a lot lately about the advice that I have read, from Ned Hickson and from big-shot big-money authors, too, about the need to exercise one’s writing chops by, um (that’s “erm” for you Brits), actually writing from time to time. Like every day, if possible, lazy dumbass self. They don’t all have to be timeless works of art, but then, as the poem here to follow shows, sometimes there’s enough talent oozing out of us to make Billy Shakespeare cry. Well, he’d be crying, I bet. So today,
when I didn’t have a shittin’ bit of work to do because the upside-down world known as retail says that summer is mostly over and I’m not that busy with grills and lawnmowers any more when I was on break, I decided to write, SOMETHING, to keep in writing shape (or whatever).
This is certain to become an instant classic. I imagine it will be included in a “Great Poems of the Early 21st Century” collection somewhere down the road. Here is what surely will be known some day as my opus:
Ode To An Eye-Booger
Hard little booger in my eye,
Why can you not liquify,
Not wash out as i tear-ify?
Why, hard little booger, why?
You’re such a tiny “little fry,”
I pray that you don’t multiply,
Become a raging, painful stye,
Hard little booger in my eye.
To my contact lens you say, “Tis I!
You won’t displace ME in his eye.
Give it your best concave try.
I’m firmly stuck here to this guy.”
Thought I’d give “Old Yeller” a try,
Look at pics of Mom and Dad and I,
Anything to make me cry,
And dislodge this bugger from my eye.
Then suddenly you went bye-bye,
Somehow grew wings and just let fly,
I know not where, I know not why
I kinda miss you, little guy.