Sing along with me . . .

I’ll tell you a story ‘bout Whistlin’ Joe
He likes his sour mix with amaretto
Well, just t’other day about half past noon
I heard Whistlin’ Joe whistlin’ up a tune
He was tappin his pen he was tappin’ his toes
The only thing missin’ was his ol’ banjo
But ‘magine my surprise when I went to see the show
Ol’ Whistlin’ Joe wasn’t wearin’ any clothes.


Yeah, so it's silly. What about it?
You're all a buncha' punks anyway.

Puppets

A fabled land exists where good mixes with evil to create an atmosphere of tranquility much like vodka mixes with white vermouth to create the sublime Martini. Puppets are revered as gods in this fabled land. To harm a puppet is to commit a grave crime that will result in eternal damnation. Puppets bring happiness; they bring sweet tears of ecstasy. Although some do fear puppets, the fear is simply self-loathing and ignorance of unfamiliar ways. Puppet hatred is a form of bigotry and brings shame and scorn to all puppet haters. Thus, remember, puppets are good because they make us laugh; keyboards are evil because they make us cry.

The Leonard

Leonard really did not want to leave his chateau this evening. More importantly, he feared that he would not be able to leave. The reasons for his reluctance were quite simple if not meaningful. For one thing, he could not find his monocle or his fez. He never went public without these accessories. Also, he had been sick for some time, and a nagging cough had strained his voice to the point of laryngitis. This condition would have made it impossible to regale the attendants with fanciful tales of his youth in Normandy. Perhaps the main reason was that, deep down, Leonard felt that he was just too dignified for this crowd.

Shrubbery

Shrubbery waits next to the window
Short fat green trimmed and fussed over.
The poodle of the plant kingdom
What a terrible thing to be
Because poodles really suck.
But shrubbery waits patiently
All green and sticky and square
Waiting for the grass to stop
Being so smug and showy

Cats

Tangles of wet cat fur on the grass
Because they fight over the porch
At night with those awful screams
That cut the reel on the in-flight
Dream show that I won’t remember
Because I think of cats and other
Crap that bothers me only at night.

Gained in translation

This a blind translation of a French poem. Thought it would be fun and would get me in the mood to move mountains again. Got this idea from the most vodka of travelers at me~tronome.


Quadrant of ceiling and basement lord, pesky communist uncovered
Sure, the spirit germinates prolific and longs enough
Exchanged horizons embarrassed to touch the circle
Ill nourished verse unjoin night, pray the twisted quarreling nuance;

Quadrant of terror is changing to uncancer humanity
Out of desperation, the communist unites sour chauvinism
Seek the battery like a muse and softly aid twilight
This cognac tastes like a profound poison;

Quadrant of plagued talent sees immersed tranquility
Vast prison of dunes, an imitation barrier
A proper quotation, muted inflamed arrogance
Violent tendency sees fiends and folly and not ceremony;

These clowns talk of clouds sautéed amid fury
And lancinate vast ceilings unaffected by hyperbole
Ancient quests are spirit errands to seek patronage
Quests of metaphor such giant opéra comique;

So the long corbillards seek the tambourines of mystery
Defiled lunacy dances my name; Despair
Vanity, pleasure, the English atrocity, desolation
Surely the Moon’s cranium tilts a planet seen dropping night.

The original verse in French.

Spleen
Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l'esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l'horizon embrassant tout le cercle
II nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l'Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S'en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D'une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu'un peuple muet d'infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.

— Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme; l'Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l'Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.