“If I were a pickled spleen
Kept in a jar for 30 years
Charged with electrical current
In a chamber full of your darkest fears,
Then released from the jar on a Sunday
And carried overseas by some birds
To attend celebrations in Istanbul
Would you still kiss me afterwards?”
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The air was warm and friendly,
The sun a gentle golden light,
And the dirt was easily shoveled
Upon the corpse of the guy who passed me on the right.
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I’m on a new diet
Where I stand outside
As the rain pours upon me
And softens my hide,
Where the drumbeat of storms
And the wind’s icy whip
Shall grab fat from my bones
And from my body strip.
This diet’s approved
By the Gods of the gale,
Guaranteed by the ancients
To make man out of whale.
While such primeval cures
Do at first seem too frightening
I do endorse this diet
Of Thunder and Lightening.
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I worked all week,
I sweated and toiled,
I broke my back,
My plans were foiled,
My heart was shattered,
My brain turned to goo
So that, Dearest Saturday,
I could make it to you.
I slaved and I slobbered.
My displeasures grew
As I sat through lectures
I already knew,
I held off angry clients,
Protected my pen
So that we, Dearest Saturday,
Could be one once again.
Metaphorical dragons
Have fallen before me,
Slain so I could assure
That you would not deplore me,
And although I am thankful
To not be deplored
Why is it, Dearest Saturday,
That I’m this freakin’ bored?
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Sometimes I take a bath
To ease the stress of taxation.
I fill the tub with herbs
Such as thyme for relaxation.
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When arguing online you do
Your foe may fail to convince you,
May reject logic, spew rhetoric,
And end up looking pathetic,
May cite false studies, make up a fact,
Surrender any façade of tact,
May display no virtue and every sin,
But alas, my friend, you still won’t win.
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Like an inexpensive cut of meat
Stewed for many a lukewarm hour
You’re welcome when sold on my street
But far less welcome in my shower.
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Don’t want to marry just some girl.
I’m looking for a wholesome girl.
A girl whose lack of cleavage
Warms my big platonic heart.
A girl who thinks that working’s
Not synonymous with twerking.
A girl who skips the bar
Because she wants to look at art.
I want to find a happy lass
Who doesn’t want to shake her ass,
Who goes to church on Sundays
And buys ice cream from a truck,
Who’s pure and chaste and sweet
And, instead of “lit,” says “neat.”
But I also want Beyonce,
So I’m feeling kinda stuck…
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I’m feeling kinda down
Like a king without a crown.
I’m cowardly, as yellow as they come.
I’ve read like half a million books
By a bunch of chefs and cooks
But about sustainability I’m still dumb.
I thought maybe I’d fit in
If I changed my skin
But this spray-tan makes me look like that guy on the news.
You put it all together
In the rain or sunny weather…
I’ve got the well-read, not-green, yellow, orangey-white guy blues.
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The Daily Travesty 