Tuesday, December 16, 2008

it the poem it

(note: this poem is at its best when it's recitied at midnight after several hours of song, chants, dance, and ingestion of intoxicants.)

the situ-
ation that
the cat
as it slept
on the mat
no wait
not that
fat cat
too fat
to do
or it
the situ-
ation that
the BAT
yeah the bat
as it flew
'cross the plains
without trees
without drains
'cross the fields
of very high
soybean yields
it flew without worry
and without fear
tho' it can't see
itself within
the mirr'
'cause bats
have bad eyes
can't see well
and can't eat pies
as it flies
through the skies
finger wings
can't hold things
very well
can't even ring
a dinner bell

so what's the point
of this damn thing
no point to make
no pie to bake
no joint to take
back to your room
so smoke will loom
when you light up
you stoner pup
anyway this thing
doesn't mean
it just is
it just be
just a making
from little old me
dancing 'round
like a flea
on a scruffy
old cat
as it sleeps
and grows fat
on a soft
orange mat
no not the cat
go back
go back
it's the BAT
that did the thing
while on the wing
plopping droppings
without stopping
it's called guano
helps plants grow
when the snow's
not aground
when it's spring
and the bird
is on the wing
and the bat
no not on the mat
but on the wing
blind harry thing
and that damn cat
lies on the mat
gets more fat
and more fat
acts like a spoiled
rotten brat
thrown off a roof
it won't go SPLAT!
lands on its feet
and walks away
not very sweet
for you cat hater
so eat your tasty
baked poe-tater
and don't be
such a

your mother
why don't you
thank her
for bearing you
and raising you
for making sure
you tied your shoes
or even owned
a pair to tie
she could've let you
roll up and die
no lie
no lie
back to the bat
it's the hero
of this thing
though others
hate it for
no good ring
hairy scary
freaks out mary
and sometimes larry
often jerry
sometimes harry
and always barry

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