An Ode to My Pillows
I was feeling inspired by Jim's latest post - see http://theuncannybusker.blogspot.com - and by memories of Bethany's "Ode to a Down Blanket." Therefore, fresh from nap time, I began writing an ode to my pillows. However, after a few moments I noticed the music blaring up from the ninth floor such that I can't even cover it with my own music. Thus, rather than a loving little poem to my pillows, I give you the following:
To the Cretins Below
A Poem by Allison the Bad Person (for those of you familiar with The Many Personae of OFFW 1010)
Ninth floor savages, how I hate thee so.
Have you any ethical standards? No.
You blare your music through the floor
And I cannot take it any more.
How is it that you still can hear?
Or is that just the problem, dear?
Pity for you I refuse to feel.
For wild dogs, I would make you a meal.
I would pull off your fingernails one by one.
I would blast off your toes with a shot gun.
I would shatter your bones with great glee.
I would kill you oh so painfully. Oh so slowly.
I would cook you in a big black kettle,
And let you stew for the flavor to settle.
Heeeeeere wild doggy, Heeeeeeeeeeeere wild doggy.
Hurry up before your food gets soggy.
posted by theaveragejoeisamoron @ 5:49 PM
4 comments
4 Comments:
It's good to know I've inspired someone to grace the world with such a poignant and beautiful poem.
I've actually just been informed that the bulk of the noise was coming from a full gospel band (drums, bass guitar, keyboard) on the 11th floor. So while my poem was inappropriate for the situation, I'm not going to change it. The ninth floor has bothered us with music enough to deserve it. Just know that the poem is for the cretins both above and below us.
An ode to your pillows??
Is that a euphanism for breasts?
A euphemism for breasts? No. Just because the Black Eyed Peas released some shitty song about "My hump, my hump, you love my lady lumps," does not mean that everyday semi-normal people are running around chanting or writing about their anatomy.
I was going to write a poem about my pillows. On my bed. You know, the square and rectangular pieces of fabric filled with fluffy stuffing?
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