Category: Poetry

For what you would say is your livelihood, you seem to be pretty dead. Maybe take up a hobby or two? I’m just a backseat critic, I can’t be bothered with no nonsense, mister. Do I make myself clear? I certainly would hope so, for your sake.

Well. What a lovely surprise tonight, Percy. You didn’t think I’d notice the polish on the floor, but you were wrong. Oh Percy, what a lovely polish. Now if only you would use the same stuff on my leather shoes. Ha. Ha ha. Ha.

And as far as that’s concerned, we need an intervention. Marge, lovely Margerie, you have been a staple of our museum for seven years. It’s time that we fix that issue you’ve been having. We’ve all known it. You’ve been practically crying out for help. And before you say anything, we want you to meet your new therapist from the Orphonoxy Clinic in East Franklin.

And ya say everything is just so groovy, but ya really have to stop and think. You know, nothin’s worse than havin’ a baby in your eye. And if someone tells ya otherwise, they’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’. But that’s just one priest’s opinion.

Glastonbury, you say? Well, I just hope your mother has the kind of courage to sit upon a hen. What kind of hen, you say? Well, if you don’t know the proper mothersitting etiquette necessary for a hen-squattage, then I’d say you are a part of the problem in the world at large today.

It’s pandering to the half-breathing, half-stalking idiots at bay, the frustrating ones who don’t break their gaze for a lollipop or ice cream cone. Any campaign submits itself to public scrutiny, and that means miserable parasites as well as flourishing patrons receive the same information. How it affects their lives varies tremendously, and be sure never to underestimate the gall that some of these half-wits display on a regular basis.