TAKE THE YASHMAK OFF YOUR HEAD.

From “Songs Without Words” by Leonid Alexeevich Bluski.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Fry it up with onions;
Mash it up with moldy bread
And rub it on your bunions.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

Take the yashmak off your head,
Cover it with mustard;
Beat it till the mix turns red
And serve it up like custard.

Ah, yashmak,
Eh, yashmak,
Ee, yashmak,
Oh, yashmak,
Ooh, yashmak:
Take the yashmak off your head.

A RESPONSE

On Receiving a Copy of “Take The Yashmak Off Your Head” Beside an Office Printer.

If these verses have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That we did but slumber here
While these verses did appear
Unbid on our LaserJet,
Where we found them, ink still wet;
And, thinking what a shame ’twould be
Prodigally to waste a tree,
Gave the papers unto you,
In trust that you’d know what to do.
Ere long we will make amends
And become the best of friends;
Meanwhile, toss this paper in
The big round blue recycling bin.

—W. S.

THE WONDERFULL AVENTURE OF SYR GAWAYNE IN THE CASTELL OF MAYDEN CLERKES,

Which Is a Tale Sette Downe for One of the Trewest and Mervayllest Aventures That Ever Bifel Syr Gawayne.

AND AFTER RYDING above thre Englysshe legues syr Gawayne cam uppon a fayre castell. And over the castell gate was wryten in letters of gold,

WORDPRESS TAG: POETRY

And in front of the castell on a roche there sate a mayden, weping ful sore for pyté. And syr Gawayne unmounted hym and asked the mayden, “Wherefor makyst thou soche dole?”

And the mayden answered him, “Trewely I am wepyng for the custome of this castell, for whan that I sawe thee, a knight valyaunt and ful of vertu, approche unto thys curssed castell, hyt nyghe brast myn herte for pyté.”

“Tell me,” quod syr Gawayne, “what ys the custome of this castell?”

“Trewely,” quod the mayden, “ill chance hath brought thee here. For thys ys the Castell of Mayden Clerkes, and hyt ys the custome of this castell that no knyght may passe but that the Mayden Clerkes assaulten hym with dogerel. And many knyghtes have com hereby, but none be yet on lyve.”

“That ys an yvell custome,” seyde syr Gawayne.

“Wherefor I dyd make soche dole whan that I sawe thee. For hyt is seyde that none bot the moste valyaunt of King Arthurs knyghtes schal conquer thys castell. And truely the knyght that enchevyth this aventure schall have moche erthely worschipp. And lo, the Mayden Clerkes approche even now, wherefor I byd the mak haste to arme the.”

And syr Gawayne loked and biheld sevvyn maydens armed like unto knyghts. And eche helde a scroll on whych wer wryt straunge letters, and at once they biganne to rede from the scrolls. And syr Gawayne helde hys shelde tofore hym, but the maydens dyd shoot jagged half-rimes that brast hys shelde asonder.

And whan syr Gawayne was sore bysette, and wot not how he myght defend hymselffe, bihold there appered unto hym Merlion, who gav hym a boke and bade hym rede therfrom. “And loke you rede loude and eke streng,” quod Merlion, “for your lyf dipendyth uppon hyt.”

So syr Gawayne opyned the boke, and lo, in it wer wryten the workes of the Englysshe poets of most renome and worschippe. And syr Gawayne bigan to rede dan Chaucer his poemys in a voys ful resonaunt. And straightaway the maydens dyd dropp hir scrolls, and thei did cover hir eares with hir hondes. And at the fift stanza of Troylus and Criseyde, the maydens all fel doun dede, and the castell vanysshed al sodeynly, for the inchauntements of the place were al to-brokyn.

And on the roche wher the mayden had sate Merlion lette wryt in gold letters,

HERE SYR GAWAYNE DYD CONQUER THE CASTELL OF MAYDEN CLERKES BY POUER AND VERTU OF TREWE POETRIE.

And the peple of the lands about the castell mad grete chere of syr Gawayne, and he dyd abyde with hem fyve dayes with grete honneur.

LOVE SONG OF AN INEBRIATED CITY COUNCILMAN.

Your lips are like, uh, sort of, um, I mean,
That is, you know, your eyes are sort of green,
And then your uh, that what’s it called, that face—
It’s like, uh, um….oh, heck, I lost my place.
It’s like, uh, petals of a rose. No, wait—
I think that’s what your lips are like. I hate
It when I get myself mixed up like this.
And something something blah blah blah your kiss,
No, wait, that’s later. Where was I? Um, well,
Your face. I had this memorized. Oh, hell.
I don’t care what those damn reporters think.
Screw rehab. Waiter! Bring another drink.

A VALENTINE.

A MOST ROMANTIC Valentine, which you may click to enlarge, download, and print for your sweetheart, with Dr. Boli’s compliments.

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

The Z is for the Zymurgist,
who always comes in last,
And always will, to judge by
what has happened in the past.
When jobs are called by alphabet,
she seldom gets her share–
Which doesn’t bother her, because
she drinks too much to care.

THE PINE-CLEANER’S SONG.

IN THE DAYS before pine cleaners in liquid form became commonly available in every grocery store, the old pine-cleaner was a familiar sight in city neighborhoods, strolling up the street and singing his pine-cleaner’s song:

Any dirty old pines to be cleaned,
And restored to original luster?
Whether one pine, or two, or a cluster,
Any dirty old pines to be cleaned?

Of my art all the secrets I’ve gleaned,
And my work, I am sure, will pass muster.
Here I come with my chamois and duster:
Any dirty old pines to be cleaned?

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

Y for the Yes-man, who longs to say “no”;
Alas and alack, in his job it’s prohibited.
Original thought
Is not what he’s here for,
So let’s give a cheer for
The Yes-man who really would like to say “no,” but does not.

The job is a hard one, as Yes-men all know:
His private opinions may not be exhibited.
His job is to say
What his bosses will pay for,
So let’s say hooray for
The Yes-man who’d rather say “no,” but says “yes” anyway.

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

X for the Xylotomist, whose specialized profession
Is cutting bits of wood to fit into a microscope.
It’s more than just a job, she worries—now it’s an obsession.
She thinks she has become, she tells us, holding back her tears,
A xylotomic addict—maybe even worse, she fears—
And now, she says, to go cold turkey is her only hope.
But then who’ll cut our bits of wood to fit our microscope?

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

In Honor of the Letter W,
A Hymn to the Worker.

The Worker! How we love to sing his praises!
The Worker! How we hate to give him raises!
We praise him as the fount of every virtue,
And also ’cause his union pals can hurt you.

The Worker! He’s the hero of our story!
The Worker! His the fame and his the glory!
We gladly pay him tribute every Mayday,
As long as we don’t have to every payday.

It’s really best, although it may seem funny,
That he should work, and we should get the money:
For ’tis a truth that cannot be ignored
That Virtue ought to be its own reward.

AN APPLICATION FOR THE POST OF POET LAUREATE OF KIRIBATI.

SEVERAL YEARS AGO, Dr. Boli heard of a young man who had the bright idea of applying for the position of poet laureate to the island nation of Kiribati. Much to Dr. Boli’s surprise, the young man’s proposal was accepted. What added to Dr. Boli’s surprise was the fact that the young man, whose idiom was decidedly colloquial, obviously did not know how to pronounce the name “Kiribati,” which Dr. Boli would have thought would be one of the few requirements for his position. Dr. Boli therefore wrote this poem in response, not to compete for the position of poet laureate, but merely for the wholly laudable purpose of showing that he knows how to pronounce “Kiribati,” which the rhyme scheme makes abundantly evident. This is the poem that the poet laureate of Kiribati ought to have written.

 

Havin’ once seen a Polynesian lass
Who danced in a grass skirt without a top on,
I’m startin’ to believe that Kiribati
Is just the sort of isle I’d like to stop on.
So if you don’t mind payin’ me for sittin’
And writin’ poems (I’m hopin’ that you don’t),
For ten bucks each, I’ll read you what I’ve written—
Or, better yet, for twenty bucks, I won’t.