Music Hath Charms to Savage a Foolish Breast
(Imagine Burl Ives singing it to any melody you like.)
A man fell outa Heaven, and near as we could see,
his multi-coloured parachute got tangled in a tree.
We stopped and chatted in the road and pondered how to help.
No need to fear, no traffic here—it’s safe for you and me.
Chorus:
Well, the tree looked on and smiled,
then it told me, “Oh my child,
step back and see the forest
lest the details drive you wild
because you can’t see it once you’re gone,
although the world keeps rolling on;
go out and play, roll in the hay,
for none of us are here to stay,
you’ll cross that road some other day—
til then you’re just a pawn.”
We heard an allegory as he called us from the tree;
I thought he was an angel, ’cause that’s how he looked to
me.
Then he began to sing a song and strum his guitar, too,
and music wove his nonsense into our eternity.
Repeat the Chorus:
Some fruit was floating by, some very high, some very low;
the sweeter ones were out of reach, the bitter ones below.
While suckin’ fruit, we heard a toot beyond the road’s
horizon,
but we stayed there. The road was fair; the tree must surely
know.
Repeat the Chorus:
The truck kept coming down the road as fast as it could haul.
We knew we shouldn’t worry, though we heard its warning
call.
“The tree knows best—don’t be a pest.” We didn't ask again.
“The devil’s in the details; focus on the overall.”
Repeat the Chorus:
I met my end and lost that friend—I don’t know if he stayed.
I think the truck kept rolling over others as they played.
I see the bigger picture now and know the tree was wrong.
It didn’t care—it called us there to hear us sing-along:
Repeat the Chorus:
The Comfy Chair of His Despair
Romeo in Oubliette:
a story that I can’t forget.
Enchanted by his lady fair,
her father sat him in a chair
then stomped three times upon a door
beneath the chair upon the floor
which opened wide and deep inside,
where he would never have a bride,
the young man fell into his hell—
the place his final bell would knell—
for her good father ne’er would let
this Romeo have Juliet.
Go Figger!
Dextrous Erectus
wasn’t a hunk,
but he had a title
and that made his junk
seem bigger.
One day at the Forum,
just on a whim,
he stripped off his armor
to show off his vim
and vigor.
The masses applauded
and reached out to touch,
but found that his laurels
just didn’t take much
to trigger.
(While writing this tale,
although it’s been fun,
I can’t tell the rest
’til I’ve had at least one
more jigger.
Well, two hit the spot.
My disclaimer: “It’s gory,”
but just like Paul Harvey’s
“The Rest of the Story,”
de rigueur.)
Ten lithe, lovely virgins
at his noble word
all joined him in dancing
when everyone heard
a snigger.
It seems that his pugio
too quickly had failed.
The sniggler was fed to
(while Dextrous was veiled)
a tigger.
That was life then—
not much different today.
The peons are eaten
while nobles all play.
Go figger.
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