For reasons that may or may not ever become clear to you–not that we give a crap–we’re finally publishing a poem on our blog that also remains on permanent loan to our dearest friend Mr. Balk, as long as he wants it. (No, Alex did not make the poem up to make fun of us. He is much funnier than that.) We wrote this many years ago in college for a friend who was being dicked over by
an evil, unkind mana 26-year-old. That man is now a dutiful, loving husband and father. See the power of poetry? Especially when it RHYMES?
There’s a jump in here for the old folks. Don’t jump, old folksThe "jump" function is missing from our WYSIWYG for some reason. You’re going to have to get THE WHOLE THING AT ONCE! (Rimshot! We love saying "Rimshot!".) If you are related to us, do not read past stanza 4. Everyone else–we don’t know why you even read this blog in the first place, so whatever.
Ballad Of The Love-Scorned Anywoman
Would it trouble you, at my behest,
to put a stuttering heart to rest?
This trouble’s neither great nor tall–
So look at me, at least, or call.
My number’s listed in the book,
and much is said with scattered look,
or not. Not operating, then
fling out that stevedore, and pen
a captive letter, deeply felt,
as lush and fired as African veldt.
God’s love, we never had a fight!
We Walked in Beauty like the Night!
or somesuch. As you used to say?
perhaps that was another day.
Perhaps you listed me along
with All Else In My Life That’s Wrong:
the idling sound that’s not quite sound,
the ruined roast, the basset hound
you wanted but never seemed to get.
And you had studied to be a vet!
Perhaps I’m left in flounced heap
with all else limitless and cheap.
Or backyard flung to sootwashed bin,
with other snot-strung cherubim.
But I digress, and I’m forlorn.
My hands are weeping, chewed-off, torn.
I’d send them to The One I Love,
If Hallmark made a helpful glove.
My needs are drippy, short and clear:
could you last lilt out, "My Dear?"
Can’t do? Be kind, if we’re to be free.
I sucked your dick; be nice to me.