rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Sunday went pear shaped. It collapsed like a soufflé when the oven door gets slammed. It got knocked out like a bird that mistakes a window reflection for the open sky. In short, it turned to crap. My transportation got disarranged and I never made it to the stores, and then while I was waiting to not go shopping I fell asleep on the couch and woke up groggy and disoriented as dusk fell on a day too warm for so early in the season. In the immortal cliché of dozens of thwarted small-time hoods in dozens of B movies from the first two decades of talking pictures, I should of stood in bed.

But I couldn't of stood in bed because the cat wanted fed, and the television I'd fallen asleep watching wanted turned off, and then the water wanted to come out of the pipes as a shower, and the laundry I fell sleep before finishing last night wanted to be dried and folded, and by that time I was too wide awake to get back to sleep until afternoon turned my plans into the aforementioned flattened soufflé. I was doomed! Doomed, I tell you! But I guess that will teach me not to fall asleep in front of a television while watching low budget films noirs.

So this. I have to find something to post as Sunday Verse, so I've been reading poetry but everything I read wants to drag me off into the sultry woods of despair and devour me. After a pear-shaped day must I now become despair spoor moldering in the dark night? I won't have it! So here's just this:

Sunday Verse

A Bulletin Has Just Come In

by Ogden Nash

The rabbit's dreamy eyes grow dreamier
As he quietly gives you tularemia.

The parrot clashes his hooked proboscis
And laughs while handing you psittacosis.

In every swamp or wooded area
Mosquito witches brew malaria.

We risk at every jolly picnic
Spotted fever from a tick nick.

People perish of bubonic;
To rats, its better than a tonic.

The hog converted into pork
Puts trichinosis on your fork.

The dog today that guards your babies
Tomorrow turns and gives them rabies.

The baby, once all milk and spittle,
Grows to a Hitler, and boy, can he hittle!

That's our planet, and we're stuck with it.
I wish its inheritors the best of luck with it.

On the bright side, the Big Rain the other day rejuvenated a few of the frogs, so now I can go out for a while and sit in the no-longer-quite-so-unpleasantly-warm night and listen to them croak. I'm pretty sure they are making more sense than I am. They are undoubtedly happier.

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