Wednesday, April 19, 2006

cleanup reprint: poem writ about the group

note: this post furst appeared on 3/16/2005. i am deletin the ole one to git rid of the filthy lanks in the comments. i plan to do this fer a while till i git it all cleaned up. thankee fer yer indulgents.

yesterdy i tride to git back up on the horse name of life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly. bout halfway thru i real eyesed how i wood need fer folks to be able to see a poem i writ fer n read to the group, witch twuz a parody of us all n menchuned the twelve mos reglar members. so today, i figgerd twood be rite to type it in fer ye. i caint find innythang of it but the handwrit draft, but tiz close a nuff fer ye to git a lil idee how we wuz.

i wish i could find the final vershun on a counta how i had writ a lil pre-ambull to splain bout how henry mouffette wonted to start a literairy movement (lack a bowel movement, only made out of wurds). he figgerd our movement could be so major, twood be 'Beyond Tijuana.' it seemed lack a good rhymin challenge n i wonted to poke a lil fun at us all n i wonted to announce how i wuz a'gone try to wurk on a novel in sted of trine to write entertainin lil pieces each week, witch the odd thang bout that is how back then i felt a shamed of myself fer panderin to the audients, but now seems lack them 'panderin stories' wuz the bes thangs i writ fer the group.

but a nuff of that. without futher ado (or eggscuses), heres the poem:

Beyond Tijuana

When that Friday with his hours creeping
The drought of work week has left sleeping
And bathéd each bird beak with sweet liquor
From which a bird brain drunk can be assured,
Then swarm together at somebody's nest
A flock of chirping birds that ought to rest.

Their number is not constant week to week
For few are they who always show the beak
Yet of these few I now propose to speak.

And to those feathered friends that I leave out,
I only wonder what you cry about,
Since those I mention are the foolish birds
Who weekly wound us with their witless words.

Of these I've chosen twelve to call by name
Though many others prob'ly are fair game,
Yet none so richly do deserve the blame
Of helping American literature go lame.

A Hawk(1) there was and that a worthy bird
Who could despise the lowly grubbing herd
While perched atop an A-frame by the lake
A'sipping on a beer and chewing steak

His lady was a lovely Chickadee(2)
Who rarely sang a note that we could see
And who was always cheerful, kind and good,
Which led some to believe her made of wood

Then too there was a great big Jewish Crow(3)
Who often would admit he did not know
Why one should struggle just to write a 'pome'
Since he wrote two or three while driving home.

His wife she was a Raven(4) black and sleek
Who struggled to write 'pomes' but was too meek
To read them out to birds who'd only squawk --
Besides, she feared the censure of the Hawk.

Not so the brainy Buzzard(5) who would read
The rotten shreds of flesh on which he claimed to feed,
While saying he would never, ever tease
The authors of autobiographies.

His best friend was a Starling(6) from the South
Who usually had a joint stuck in his mouth
And stories new from one week to the next
That had to do with music, drugs or sex.

The Magpie(7) never wrote of such mundane
Subjects as the Starling chose, for the bane
Of her career were those who thought she'd gleam
If only she'd write something more mainstream.

The Ostrich(8) did not suffer such bad luck
For in the pile of sand her head was stuck,
And there she found small jewels of poetry
Which she would polish and read quietly.

A pretty Peacock(9) -- oh, you could not fail
To notice how she wagged her sexy tail --
Did sometimes add her voice unto the din
And speak of men and God and love and men.
And of the men that had the Peacock chased,
Winners were only those who'd left the race.
A pity those who tried to grab the prize
And found themselves mere morons in her eyes.

Which somehow does remind me of the bird
With whom I am close friends -- perhaps you've heard.
He is a luckless sort, his face is red,
His feathers have been plucked; he looks half dead!
He limps from place to place and cannot fly,
And sad are those occasion when he'll try
To mount a lofty flight upon a dream
Of glory that will never grace his team.
Now some would say his brains were minimal,
But I'd point out he's just a Cardinal(10).

That leaves me but two birds to rhyme about
And one is I, so you had best watch out.
The first I prize above all other fowl,
For that dear lady is my wife, the Owl(11),
Who like the Chickadee does rarely speak,
And like the Raven often feels quite meek,
But whose bright eyes catch every nod and wink
And notice things most other birds would never think
Were being seen or being thought about --
But she sees all -- of that you need not doubt.

Which brings me to myself, the lowly Stork(12)
Of who it has been said, "He's such a dork!
A skinny, scrawny bird with giant beak,
Whose only love is hearing himself speak."
The truth of which charge I cannot deny
So I won't waste my breath with such a try.

Instead I'll turn my rhymes back to the birds
Who've made me sweat out all these metered words.
As said before, the birds do weekly meet
At someone's nest where they each other greet
With poems, stories, letters and such stuff
As makes most birds to think, "I've had enough!"

Now one such meeting would I here describe
Although you might think I portray a tribe
Of savages whom civilizing missed
Or creatures who had Mother Nature pissed.

The Cardinal begged to be first to read
And though he was a sad, sad sight indeed,
He read us a tale about a full grown man
Who played for a team that was pure Mexican

The man played left field and swung a mean bat
And Beyond Tijuana he had a small flat
Where he raised Chihuahuas in his spare time
And earned from his work not the first thin dime.

And when the story was ended at last
The Crow cried out that he was aghast
To hear a tale with no moral or sense
And the Buzzard cried fowl, for he was tired
Of hearing tales the author's life inspired.
The Owl and the Peacock knowingly smiled
For they knew the meaning the Cardinal had piled
Into his short story was lust and love --
They knew for what stood the outfielder's glove.
But the Hawk said nothing and stifled a yawn,
And the Stork said, "That's right -- let's move it on!"

So the Starling coughed and said, "I have a tale.
It's not very long and it's not very stale
For I wrote it while sitting alone in my car
On the way while the Buzzard stopped in at a bar."
So saying the Starling rattled his notes
And began reading the words he had wrote.

"Was in Mississippi, not long ago,
In Starkville with two birds I used to know.
They had 'em some acid, some speed, some 'ludes,
And other drugs even I thought to crude,
And one of them says, "Try this marijuana.
It's so good it will send you Beyond Tijuana."
I smoked me a joint of the dynamite weed
And saw things that I know I'd never seed,
A fool with his arms around a blonde dame,
A good time man making time with the same,
An acre of sawdust steamed in the sun,
While a man vowed he'd kill a fish with a gun."

When the Starling was done, the birds flapped their wings,
But in whispers they said, "He writes the same things
Week after week, I think it's a sin!
Write nothing instead of the same thing again!"
And most of the critics were true to the call
Since for weeks they'd sit writing nothing at all.

Then the Hawk cleared his throat and hushed the room
And spoke like a dead man stuck in a tomb:
'Paid Parallel penance in Pompano,
A pilgrimage yearly I take you know
Beyond Tijuana! with my poetry
I cynically say, that's enough for me."

The room remained silent, waiting to see,
If the poem was ended as it seemed to be.
Then the female fowls whistled loud praise
While the gents roosted in a jealous haze.
"If I had his money," they thought, "Or his voice,
You'd hear some po'try that truly was choice."

But they had neither, nor did they write
Much poetry, although the Buzzard, for spite,
Read a description of a brown-skinned girl
From Beyond Tijuana who was out of this world.

Then the Magpie read of an alien who
Kidnapped a woman while wearing one shoe
And carried her from her home in the crude
To Beyond Tijuana, where he sold her for food.

When nobody spoke, the Ostrich began
To read of a beetle who'd turned into a man,
A puppy who died to a Biblical tune,
A woman who sent a man to the moon,
And Beyond Tijuana, where she had a room.

The Crow begged the Raven in vain to read
And the Peacock giggled as she smoked Starling weed
And the Stork asked if he might read a story
That he would admit was prob'ly too sorry
To read to the group, but maybe next week --
"But no," said the Hawk, "you are not so meek."
"That's right," croaked the Buzzard, we wait for rhymes
That tell us more of Stork's life and times."

Stork said, "Here autobiography ends,
I've written a poem about all my friends.
I'll read it if you want to hear, you wanna?
Its title is simply Beyond Tijuana."

The Stork read his piece, which caused much laughter
But comedy was not what the Stork was after.
"So farewell," he read, "to short stuff for a while,
Maybe a change will stop all the smiles.
Oh, I'll try a novel, oh yes, I'm gonna
Cause that's how I'll get Beyond Tijuana."

Of course the birds had to stifle their yawns
Three novels were already going to Tijuana ...
... and Beyond.

who them birds is:
(1) Mark Kendall
(2) Martha Davis
(3) Billy Stewart
(4) Lauren Stewart
(5) Jake Dawes
(6) Bud Rankin
(7) Edna Polk
(8) Kristina Olsen
(9) Martha Townsend
(10) Johnny Mayhew
(11) Emily Duncan
(12) Buddy Don Duncan

ye kin read more bout each of them riters n whut they read at each meetin in appendix b: them group meetins.

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