CITY MUTT

I’d hung out with the cows, savored their dung,
And hunted field mice when I was a pup.
The heavens dazzled. Now when I look up
I hardly see the moon, for they have brung
Me to the city. It’s not easy. Poles
Are great for marking (fire hydrants too),
But when I walk along the avenue
Trucks hurt my ears, and I detect no voles.

Yet I don’t miss them. There are wondrous scents
On garbage day. Though I walk on a lead,
The city satisfies my every need.
When meeting a new dog there’s great suspense.
Why would a mutt miss ticks and meadow-air
So long as he has bully sticks and care?

Here's something from the wilds of Canada
 

The Toronto Minx’s Confession

I am a child of Bay and Bloor.
I wear my Russian Red just so;
I pucker up and blot and go.
I know what city streets are for.

I love the heady nasal clog
Of car fumes on the 401;
I call the coffee lady “hon”
And take a bagel for my dog.

I live to elbow through the sales
The women poring over shoes
Bums ask for change and I refuse.
I use the coins to clean my nails.

When sprawled on a canapé
Inside the Drake, I contemplate
The simple country life, but wait!
An apririn and I’ll be okay.

New Version!
 

The Toronto Mix's Confession

I am a child of Bay and Bloor.
I wear my Russian Red just so;
I pucker up and blot and go.
I know what keys and mace are for.

I love the heady nasal clog
Of car fumes on the 401;
I call the coffee lady “hon”
And take a bagel for my dog.

I live to elbow through the sales,
The women poring over shoes.
I have no extra time to lose
On Burma, ozone or the whales.

At night, when I'm Martinified
I use the Drake's facilities:
I hate the smell of rooms like these
It makes me think someone has died.

Finally, I have an old thing that might fit the bill, so I sent it in to Lucy today.

The Great God Pollen

The Great God Pollen comes to earth in fall
with golden promise, I suppose, to plant
some seeds, to grow some trees, to have a ball
with Goddess Wind, I guess. But no, I can't
rejoice in this romance, because my nose
is dripping, eyes are tearing, throat is sore,
and warm and sunny golden days are those
that bring Lord Pollen and his paramour
the closest to destroying inner peace:
I'm in a fury! Pouting, sullen, crying,
because the summer's gone, because the geese
come down from Canada, because they're flying
with Goddess Wind and Great God Pollen. Pity,
I doubt that I'll survive outside the city.

Alexandra, welcome.
I like your first ending better. Aspirin! That's funny. :D

Mary,
Nice! Even if it doesn't win, send it to LIGHT.


Here's my latest (last, I hope)


Whenever I feel like a country gal wannabe,
yearning for nature to flora and fauna me,
to corn-feed and hayseed and sweet-Alabama me,
I sweatsuit and sneaker me, work-out and sauna me,
subway and Broadway and shop-on-the-corner me,
pakora and pad thai and deep-fried banana me,
movie and theater and concert piano me,
then the wish goes away like a fleeting insanity,
and I realize I'd rather turn into a manatee,
than leave this fair city, the place where I wanna be.

Thanks, Marion!!! I've been enjoying all y'all's Speccie specs very much!!!

In the City

I don’t long for a glimpse of a pheasant,
or the scent of cow pies like a peasant.
I reside in a marvelous city at present.
And guess what: it is far from unpleasant.

There are Laundromats plenty for clothes,
and restaurants plenty for those
occasions I don’t feel like cooking (God knows
it’s most of the time), and the shows

at the theaters and movies all over
are more thrilling than strolling through clover.
It’s exiting to cross busy roads with my Rover;
there’s the likelihood we’ll get run over.

While you farmers can fret that your crop
of corn will be lost, I’ll just hop
in my Honda and zip to the big Stop & Shop
for some corn chips and cold soda pop.

Martin, that last one is a winner, in my opinion. Get it IN!

CITY PRIDE

In the country no one's gotta
decent latte machiatta
or place to look at timeless art.
You inhale scents of cattle fart
and sit and watch the horses graze
as city folk watch Shakespeare plays.
You listen to the milk cows low,
not Yitzchak Perlman wield his bow.
No matter how you bust your tooshie
you won't find a piece of sushi.
You watch another boring sunset,
wishing you could join the fun set
of the glamourous and witty
folks like me who fill the city.
These are the dreams that overtake you
till crack of dawn, when roosters wake you.

Great work: City Speccie
 

Marion, thanks for the input. Maybe the first ending does work better after all. I greatly enjoyed your piece; it feels sort of breathless. Martin, I do love your piece; at the beginning the metre threw me, but now I've read it aloud a few times and find it to have a kind of operetta charm. Well done! With all this good stuff coming at me, I feel very cowed. It's great to learn from other people.