Pile the sandbags and twirl the belts,
we’re not gonna lose our dishes to the wind
if I have anything to say about it!
Pile it all up, all that crap you never expected
you’d need to keep the mental tempest at bay.
No use questioning it at this point,
your brain sent out the SOS two days ago,
and I sincerely apologize for arriving so late.
You’d never believe the cross-country traffic.
With fists would be too bloody,
so we picked the feet instead.
Stomping full speed ahead
with soles at our disposal,
we fully intended to swing
by the 24-hour bakery for
some half-price doughnuts
and a snifter of cider
on the house (if Freddy
decided to be kind to us).
Our plans changed, and
we began flipping pancakes
until we could find
a tangible solution.
It struck me like butter
and I scraped my elbow
on the doorway as I
hurried outside to yell
“America knows the truth
about agribusiness
and systemic starvation
of impoverished nations,
just ask the government!”
A sniper’s round whizzed
past my ear and I took
no time getting out of there,
though I lost my clothes
while going so fast,
an issue that pops up
more often than you think it should.
The rats will have to scatter again,
just like after the old factory collapsed.
Or was the factory just fine before
a mysterious cracking screech filled the air?
Only the rats can tell you for sure,
and they’re long gone. Where?
Boca Raton, of course.
Those poor creatures deserve better
than having to scurry out of rubble
for the rest of their lives.
That old, musty library smell permeates
every air molecule in the place, and
there’s nothing worse in the whole world
than old musty library smell. There’s no way
you can get it out of a building for good.
No matter how many windows you open,
no matter how many walls you pressure wash,
no matter how much carpeting you steam clean,
there’s no end to the tedious aroma
unless you just tear the whole building down.
Great Outdoors Tradeshow Spokesperson: “This tomato in my hand has forty percent more oxygen inside its flesh and seeds than the average tomato!”
“Yeah right,” you say in disgust, kicking the pea gravel and crying silently to yourself as you contemplate just why you found reasons for everything you ever did, just to be shown up by a city slicker garden enthusiast right before the only day of the year that you can possibly get any kind of alone time for yourself to unwind and watch TV while a whole pack of hot dogs boils on the stove and the buns are on top of the toaster to get a culinary tan.
The fridge would sit closed, entertaining thoughts of potato salad and a cheese platter dancing through its circuits directly to its frosty belly for your convenience, because after all, you’re the one who shelled out hundreds of dollars for a box that keeps stuff cold and frozen–and perhaps give you ice and water if you shop around for a good one.
We could catch and sell crabs at a seaside concession stand,
but that just doesn’t seem like a sustainable business model.
I think it was my fault for pushing you too hard.
We can’t all be entrepreneurs, and I should have recognized that.
Sales just isn’t the profession for some people,
no matter what you’re trying to get across to the customer.
Even if you had a self-wetting sponge with an everlasting,
constantly-regenerating supply of soap and scrubbing pad
made specifically to hold up for fifty years of wear (and could sell
this product at one dollar per unit and still turn a profit),
I doubt you could make someone want it.
It’s not your fault, I just pushed you too far.
Let’s go back to the drawing board, Gene.
Awful miscommunication–
tear apart sandwich halves
see how you feel after
obey primal thought
lift fingers violently
clasp chambered pumps
throw whole chickens
maul dunes, rove
past mongrel tendencies
waive discounted junk
settle accordingly–
move on.
WHARVED 