An Exercise on Famous Last Words
 

"If You Loved Me, You Would"

You're never satisfied.
You want your catfish fried
while wriggling on the hook,
its tail still in the brook.

You come on hot as Shelley
but primed by Machiavelli.
You want your women loyal
like you wuz something royal.

You're just a short-haul trucker.
You grab a gal and shuck her.
You moved me once or twice,
then went from fire to ice.

You're worse than civil war.
Besides you grunt and snore.
So over there's the door.
I don't love you any more.

NOTE ON THE KITCHEN TABLE

I did not love you yesterday.
I love you even less today.
And here's my educated guess:
tomorrow I will love you less,
but by the next day it will seem
like passion, love and high esteem,
and so on at so great a rate
that by next Thursday I will hate
the very ground you walk upon,
so keep the house and car. I'm gone.

I've loved you for years,
and much to my sorrow.
I'm leaving today.
Well--maybe tomorrow.

Note: I've posted another version of this one below.


FORTY SKIDOO

Farewell, farewell,
it's time to scram,
to bust, to scoot,
to bolt, to jam,

to bail, to roll,
to skip, to blow,
to hit the road,
to fade, to go,

to split, push off,
make tracks, vamoose,
to beat it, boogie,
bounce, cut loose,

to flee, to break,
to hike, to fly,
to pearl, to jet,
to wave good-bye,

to ramble, toddle,
leave, move on,
to flee the scene,
clear out, be gone,

to bug out, check out,
flake out, ditch.
Pick one, my dear.
I don't care which.

Would you prefer
I say it louder?
It's over, sweetheart.
Take a powder.

Is it my imagination, Bob, or does this have echoes of Dr. Seuss's "Marvin K. Mooney Won't You Please Go Now"?

Steeped as I am in various titles by Dr. Seuss, I don't know that one at all? Is it too close?

I just wrote this with a slang dictionary in front of me listing ways of saying "leave." It did feel kiddie-like to me, though, and I was planning on doing a version with a different ending for kids.

Good one Roger! Reminds me of "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover." Do you mean peal for pearl? (as in peal out in my GTO)
Cheers,
Ralph

Thanks, Ralph. No, the slang dictionary site I used claims that "pearl" is a way of saying "leave." I guess I should try to confirm it elsewhere.

Fowl Play

The white bird sobbed when she read the letter,
she thought she had known her heron better,
the croaking and billing had been a wonder
but now everything was torn asunder
and she was left with her aching regrets:
the note said "Ciao, but I'll have no egrets."

This is a revised and expanded version of what I posted above:


FIFTY-TWO SKIDOO

Farewell, farewell,
it's time to scram,
to bust, to scoot,
to bolt, to jam,

to bail, to roll,
to skip, to blow,
to hit the road,
to fade, to go,

to split, push off,
make tracks, vamoose,
to beat it, boogie,
bounce, cut loose,

to flee, to break,
to hike, to fly,
to pearl, to jet,
to wave good-bye,

to ramble, toddle,
leave, move on,
to quit the scene,
clear out, be gone,

to bug out, check out,
cut out, ditch.
Go on, pick one!
I don't care which.

Don't you hear me?
Once more, louder:
Kick it. Exit.
Take a powder.

Embark! Abscond!
Don't make me shout.
The door is open.
Quick, get out!

Flake off! Vanish!
Mount your saddle.
Be scarce! Begone!
Depart! Skedaddle!

Bob,
wonderful!

Martin

Roger, I can't help wondering sometimes, I mean, are you really a person or are you a custom-built computer made according to specifications for D&A, like that that Deep Blue that played chess against Kasparov.

I wonder, Should I write "Yust Yoking"?

Hey Bob,
you didn't use "lay down rubber";
you must find a way to use that!

I'm still giggling.

Martin

p.s. Janice, you can say "Yust Yoking" as long as it isn't about
omelets.

Bob,
Naw, it's not too close. I mean, you never even mentioned a Zike-Bike or a Zumble-Zay! Anyway, to be compared to Dr. Seuss is high praise!

See for yourself:

MARVIN K. MOONEY...

Thanks, Marion. My own googling had come up empty. I have to start filling in my Dr. Seuss backlist. This was no "Horton Hears a Who" but quite enjoyable.

to make like a tree and leave?

Maybe he's a computerized Greenwell.

Dear John (Drafts 1-4)

Dear Bluebeard—Yes, this means I've found your cache
of body parts. You promised me! You swore!
And still you’re hoarding pornographic trash.
I’m gone. No need to hide it anymore.

Dear Dr. Frankenstein—I can’t compete
with patchworked fantasy. My flesh is real,
and therefore flawed. You only want its heat
to animate your scavenged, fused ideal.

Dear Don Quijote—Dammit, don't pretend
I’m Dulcinea! Love me as I am,
not as you wish I were. I can’t ascend
that pedestal...nor tolerate this sham.

Dear John—This isn’t working. You know why.
Go buy yourself a blow-up doll. Goodbye.

These are all fun. Keep them coming! But Julie, that is brilliant!

Julie,
Damn, that's good!!!

Julie, Wow! I really, REALLY like that.

Wow, thanks! A previous version was rejected four times, so I'd given up on it for several years...until I saw this thread and I decided it might be fun to tinker with it again.

I can't imagine anyone would be fool enough to reject it!

Julie, what Marion says. This is a real delight. Very clever indeed.
Jim

Julie, when the only thing I can pick at is the spelling of Quixote, you've got a good one.

Do keep trying with it. I just got one taken after eight tries, and Quincy just reported one after, count 'em, fifteen.

testing, one two three four five

Missolonghi Vigil
(Or Byron on his death-bed)

I sense thee Southey and thy set hard by;
Bibbias in hand and bile in heart;
Withal to judge my fittedness to die,
To pay the forfeit for my blackest art.
Thy Most Satanic Arch-Padusha, I
Am husk and kernel ready to depart;
Thy herald Bob, thou wilt forgive....my scansion
---My Father's house, for thou, has sure a mansion.

No Mausoleum of the Living Dead,
But hermit's cell of moribundant brick;
An alms-house for the numb in heart and head,
A gravely cromlech for the less-than-quick;
Wherein your saintly muse may safely spread
That incense physic for the sensive-sick;
As pungent whiff as any monk might please
---A host of rank Sweet William's on the breeze.

Go fetch my helmet, pistolas and blade,
My sable tunic and my bandoleer,
My hunting horn, the saddle from my jade,
And build for me and mine a martial bier:
Carrozza Omerico, Spartan staid
---Nor Turk nor toad in pious mode may jeer.
Bring Fletcher hence, let Tita kiss my cheek;
Je suis le soldat manque. Pathetique.

Ah fawn not by my flacid, febrile head,
I'll mint no phrases for posterity;
Where bandied words were aye my ale and bread,
Within this fasting hour were levity.
Embroider, when you judge me good and dead:
Staccatto breaths bespeak but brevity.
Enow, enow, the moment's terror passed,
I'll be the man I would be at the last.

Notes:
St 1, L1: Robert Southey and the Lake Poets:Wordsworth and Coleridge, whom Byron despised with a vengeance.( The feeling was decidedly mutual).
St 1, L2: Bibbias. It. bibles.
St 3, L5: Carrozza Omerico. It. Homeric carriage.
St 3, L7:Fletcher was Byron's long-serving man-servant.
St 3, L7: Tita was Byron's 'favourite' servant at the time of his death.

Parting Advice

The door here opens inward when you pull,
but gravity will tip back with a push
and slam it shut as you depart. Please go,
but carefully. Don't let it hit your tush.

Alternative take:

Advice to the Soundman

Please cue up the effect, though it's hackneyed and crass,
Of a screen door just missing an exiting ass.

TO MY LOVER, AFTER OUR DISCUSSION OF POETRY

When you came in last night and said, “What’s that
you’re writing?” and I answered, “Poetry”,
you told me that I couldn’t feed the cat,
much less indulge in truffles and Chablis,
on what I’d earn by that. So now I know:
you need a higher income in your bed,
a lawyer or a lady CEO
whose metaphors are businesslike as bread.
Tomorrow I'll have one last rhyming bout,
pack luggage, do the laundry and my hair.
When you come home you’ll find that I’ve moved out,
taking my unproductive life elsewhere.
We’re through, my love. But since you knew no better,
I’ve left this poem and not a Dear John letter.

(Full disclosure: This is the last poem in my book, Easy Marks.)

Exit Strategy, Part Two

Please make sure that door of mine
don't hit you where the sun don't shine.
Concern for you, my dear, it ain't.
I just don't want to scuff the paint.

LAST WORDS ON AN UNSAVOURY AFFAIR

Ms. Padel has resigned. Good! I guess her
talent was very much lesser
than those who applied
and by fairer means tried
to aspire to the rank of Professor.