The One

The clutch of pills she swallowed after eight
Turned everything as orange as the sun
As it was setting, so she kissed her date
And told him she believed he was The One.
The clutch of pills she swallowed after nine
Just calmed her down, at least for half an hour,
But then she lifted up her hem. “Divine,”
He murmured. “Fragrant as a fresh-picked flower.”
The clutch of pills she swallowed after ten
Was bigger than Tyrannosaurus Rex;
So many drugs were in her system then
That he got high giving her oral sex.
Then midnight came: she slipped on leotards
And waded through the mice and pumpkin shards.

Shovel Them Under

The cemetery caretaker is lost
Among the tombstones and the mausoleums.
That is, he’s hidden by clouds of no-see-ums
And leafy ferns. We watched him as he crossed
Between the carvings and the slabs embossed
Like legends in an open-air museum.
“Look here,” he points. “This guy charged a per diem
Of what I make per month. And what the cost . . . ”

He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Let this pass
As all things pass.” I think I see him smirk,
But he’s too busy now for us to lurk
Productively, examining the brass
Or counting names. “I don’t just cut the grass,
I am the grass,” he murmurs. “Let me work.”

Uncle Pumblechook’s Song

Some people say I haver, flop, and bumble,
But I believe what I have always said,
And I’ll believe it when I’m stiff and dead:
A man’s entitled to endeavour, stumble,
Crumble, mumble, tumble, fumble, grumble,
Answer unasked questions, tilt his head,
Insist on larger portions of white bread,
And criticize the world’s unholy jumble.

If I have claimed that small children were vicious,
It must be true. I wouldn’t tell a lie,
No, even though the very angels cry.
This meal was excellent, the food delicious,
The conversation happy and propitious.
Let go my elbow, child. This is good-bye.

Master of Tongues

He muttered something like “ogni speranza”
(Although I couldn’t hear him properly,
It didn’t sound like French, but it could be,
In which case it might be a great bonanza —
What’s French for “who comes in”? Is Sancho Panza
The guy who roamed the countryside with me?
I’m pretty sure he said “entrate qui” —
But maybe that was in another stanza).

You know those Frenchies seek me everywhere,
But I remain elusive, which I must
Because I can’t speak French. They call it crust —
Funny, since their baguettes have crust to spare.
In fact, I think it’s only right to share
The truth: my English also is a bust.