This ongoing series celebrating this blog's longevity, THREE YEARS AGO, reposting posts from exactly THREE YEARS AGO, continues now with a nonsense poem - The Seven Deaths of Mrs Hallam's Seven Sons:
And ambulance sirens, a roller coaster,
Or was it the Cosa Noster?
Michael was scheming vengeance gainst the professor who rusticated him for plagiarism.
The men in the hummer understood
That usually it was a pretty safe neighborhood.
What the devils thought was God defenestrating a bastard baby was just a meteorite.
Luckily, Mr Hallam was able to return to work six weeks after his New Age Aneurysm.
The girl in brown who walked into the coffee shop on Thursday Morning had the eyes of an octogenarian.
In memoriam, it was her royal belief
That nature & nonsense could console grief.
She sat way over in the fifth corner & wrote hurriedly a novel about shiteater bunnies & testicles.
Robert's rhymed dissertation was tit-for-tat,
So why do the gay young men have to dress like that?
A father of such potency should have, quintessentially, been a Mormon, not a hippy, you know,
For every December there had to be screaming arguments about iconography & revolution & tinsel icicles.
Governor Schwarzenegger was sitting across the aisle at the afternoon baseball game;
Henry had brought his antique Daguerreotype,
But overexposed the governor amid the hype,
And a question materialized from the tainted folds about the longevity of ancient mammals.
When the tumor squeezed the trigger,
Where in hell was this sad figure?
Ah, Mrs Hallam, your late nights in the confessional have become the vicar's nostalgic shame:
Henry's Roman nose was among his final thoughts when he cast off their earthly shackles.
In the basement bathroom, she blew him like desert dust.
Joseph's immortal ill will be
Never finishing his Third "Lost" Symphony.
He was reanimated like Erasmus Darwin's electric rocks on the steps of city hall.
And the newt's tail in her cauldron
She might never feed to her great-grandchildren.
The judge was a welder of finite proportions, preserved as a marble bust,
But I cannot be expected to remember the details of an artistic perjury trial that pitiful.
I hear George hearing a megaphone announcing Mr Hallam missing in the circle of Willis.
I never meant to be mean,
But I ended that relationship in the Oligocene
When six ton ground sloths swatted down magnolia trees like horseflies.
A naked newborn problem
Is no reason for a pogrom!
His youngest sister Phyllis had diatribed seven reasons not to kill us.
You see, George has waited his whole life to find the woman with the largest sagging breasts to demonize.
There were no towels left in the closet in Autumn 2006 when Mrs Hallam finished taking her last shower,
That moment the twelve-part crowing of Chanticleer
Marked the beginning of the getting filthier.
Is it unprofitable to put her in your bonds & use her remaining labor?
James has eaten elephant slugs & slumber slugs
And wallaroo slugs & cucumber slugs.
And the fallen leaves know more about higher powers than any higher power.
Chastise me, heretics! for the watchers grasp the invisible agony of the Stellar's Jay roar.
It was James who mistook his brother Daniel for a tasty underground network of mycelium,
A brigade of saviors will balloon us
Out of a lifetime of boredom in Khan Yunis.
Overpopulation & underpopulation are twin issues to be discussed at next year's global summit.
Daniel has become allergic
To the mosquitoes bred in the oil slick.
His antepenultimate act of indecency was attacking his mother with an Ego Paintball Gun loaded with Berkelium.
So they chose art & science over procreation, they all sold off the family stock before it was going to plummet.
That poem is included in my 2009 illuminated nonsense poetry collection, Prophecy & Doggerel, for sale for $2.15 at scribd:
S. Sandrigon - Prophecy and Doggerel 2009