| Here are some "poems" I had to write way back in high school. They were supposed to be modern day "Canterbury Tales" and I set it on a bus trip. Maybe I'll make up some new ones soon! |
| The Producer was a man of 35 years, With the look of one who's had too many beers; He smiled like a demon at every girl in sight, As though he wanted each for the night. He slithered up to them with in his continual guise, Telling each of them the same pack of lies; About the stardom each would have, If he were to speak on her behalf. He smiled as he spoke in a caring tone Of all they could do if he gave them a loan, To settle down in his Hollywood pad And share all that this "caring soul" had. A strange woman emerged as unique, As she sat all alone in the very last seat; She smoked a cigar and sneezed the whole day, Making no attempt to catch all the spray. When she cursed to herself and spit on the floor, The only thing to do was to try to ignore. Her hair was tucked under an old dusting rag And she kept her possessions in a brown paper bag; She sat scrunched up on her boney old knees As she scratched violently at invisible fleas. There was a mechanic, a quite handsome fellow, Though he always talked in a loud bellow; He talked of women and drunk fights at bars, All he knew was that and how to fix cars. He flexed his muscles under his cut-off shirt, And looked around in a continuous flirt, He smiled and whistled through his crooked teeth At all of the women the bus could seat. He wiped his nose with his oil-stained hands And wiped the remains on his dirty blue pants. His hair was dirty and not very neat For when he sat up, grease remained on his seat. When he was sleeping the girls would all laugh, And wondered when he'd last had a bath. |