By Slim Randles
Alphonse Wilson here, jest celebratin’ a nice day with poetry. Yessir. I thought I’d do some poetry today just to see if you’re in the mood.
Well, if you ain’t in the mood, I guess you could go fix a cup of coffee or something and wait for me to finish, but that would hurt my feelin’s exponential-like and you’re not the kind of person to do that, are ya?
Thass right. So, Windy, you’re prolly askin’ yourself, how do you go about writin’ a poem? You were? Good. It really ain’t so very hard, you know. You just gotta sling yerself into a artistical mood. You know, like them Dutch masters used to do afore they died and got made into seegars. You start out kinda easy, and think about lilies and daffodils and leetle fluffy cloudlets that might grow into a storm someday. Then you throw in a look that a puppy gives you … one a-them looks of love like just before he throws up on the rug. That’s how you do it. Then you just get a pencil and a piece of paper and have at it.
So here’s my poem today. I call it “Circulational Quandary” by Alphonse Wilson. But I still go by Windy, a-course.
I wandered lonely as a heart
That sends my corpuscles through waiting veins
And all the might of pumping blood
Couldn’t hold onto them reins.
Bold rider, never, never canst thou smooch
Lady Fair upon the mouth.
Nay I say to you naysayers
Or just keep ridin’ south
Oh beats my heart with laughing
At corporational cruds,
I right now feel like quaffing
A six pack of good suds
And though you come out bleedin’
And need a tranfusional fix
It sure beats hell out of weedin’
The garden out here in the sticks.
Well, there it is … do you feel transformationalized? Me, too.
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