Humor Poetry posted April 14, 2018


Exceptional
This work has reached the exceptional level
feeling sort of Poe-ish

The Craven

by pome lover

 
Once upon a morning rainy, when my mind was empty, drainy,
And my eyes were red and grainy—pitiful and sad,
Tried to write, my head a-drooping, brain a-scatter, not regrouping,
Someone called; my phone was ringing, ringing like t’was mad.
Knew it wasn’t Dad.
 
 It was someone from New Haven, sounding unkempt and unshaven
Maybe, now I think about it, it just might be Dad;
Still, my words were interrupted, waking train of thought, corrupted
Thus I answered, rude, abrupt and I must say, in summing up, I
was no Galahad.

 
So this fellow from New Haven tried to sell me riboflavin—
A vitamin, he said, sincere, the very best he had;
Energy! I’d have more of it—even swore I’d surely love it;
Yes, he said, “You’ll really love it—there’s no vitamin above it;
You will be so glad.”
 
“Glad because you needn’t quiver over having to eat liver
Or feel guilt declining milk”—a guilt I never had.
“Riboflavin does, for certain, get your ancient blood a-spurtin’
Spurtin’ through those veins for certain" - sounding more like Dad
In nightmares I've had.
 
Father was a health nut, truly, bent on teaching us unruly kids
Who didn’t give a hoot about our pa’s intense pursuit—
To eat what's healthy and good for us, not the latest fad--
But we were intent on snarfing fatty foods which had us barfing -
Things he had forbad.

 
I think my father, dead for years, now, has come back, and I have fears now
That he’s come back as a salesman - OMG. Egad!
“What you write lacks moral import—when you tell about a large wart on
A nose —a nose that’s runny—runny noses, that’s not funny—
Tasteless!"  said my Dad.
 
“Look here, Dad, you health nut maven, I don’t want your riboflavin!
Or your preachin' from the grave and
Dictating how I behave and now I'm getting mad!
I live here, in my small haven, just me and my microwave and—
Cool it, won'tcha Dad?
 
“Sorry, son” quoth long dead father, “but to me you are a bother—
Yes, indeed, for what you write is nothing but a bore.”
“Sorry, Pop, you don’t approve, but as you see, I’m in a groove—
Writing what I want whenever—eating, too, and worry?  Never.
Craven nevermore!
 
 




Recognized


just a bit of silliness - strictly fiction.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.


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