[David Anthony]

Hopefully this brings up to date this fine, fine poem.
Let me know if I've missed anything.

Family Troubles

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead
Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.
We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.
Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains:
Aunt's brain-in-shit, the handiwork of John--
That gruesome cocktail sauce, that putrid prawn.
Now in shit-aspic she'll come to the table,
'cause we don't want to waste a bit of Mabel.
Bruce showed up next day and asked for Mabel.
Jones was in the basement watching cable.
Since coprophilia brought this poem to stasis,
The cop was forced to search in lower places.
Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo.
Who, having been born sans a sense of smell,
Was able to hunt Mabel through the shits of hell
And yet munch lunch unfazed. He loved a taco,
Cabeza most, especially ad hoc, so
he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin
he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin,
a brown eye seemed to watch him from its socket
as he fumbled for the taco in his pocket,
We heard him holler "Damn, I lost my lunch!"
While he was looking we threw down a bunch
of dried stuff -- raisins, apricots, and prunes;
they gleamed up at him through the crap like runes,
in delight he cocked his leg, began a jig
and swore "I am a happy truffle-pig."
This cop, though weird, was sharp and soon succeeded
in getting all the evidence he needed.
We told the cop we didn’t mean to hurt her,
but unconvinced, he booked us for her murder.
We told the cop we didn’t mean to hurt her,
but unconvinced, he booked us for her murder
And so, at last we have a change of scene,
the villains get to tackle the machine
Eventually we ended up in court.
Publicity was huge. The trial was short.
Or if not short, at least not very long;
we kept repeating, like a shitty song,
the same old hackneyed refrain; "She deserved it!"
To which the judge replied, "You're all bald perverts!"
and dashed our hopes. "Your crimes are myriad
and weird. You're sentenced to a period
of 100 years. Case dismissed!"
He banged his gavel hard. Boy he was pissed!

[Florence Campi]

Family Troubles

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead
Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.
We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.
Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains:
Aunt's brain-in-shit, the handiwork of John--
That gruesome cocktail sauce, that putrid prawn.
Now in shit-aspic she'll come to the table,
'cause we don't want to waste a bit of Mabel.
Bruce showed up next day and asked for Mabel.
Jones was in the basement watching cable.
Since coprophilia brought this poem to stasis,
The cop was forced to search in lower places.
Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo.
Who, having been born sans a sense of smell,
Was able to hunt Mabel through the shits of hell
And yet munch lunch unfazed. He loved a taco,
Cabeza most, especially ad hoc, so
he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin
he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin,
a brown eye seemed to watch him from its socket
as he fumbled for the taco in his pocket,
We heard him holler "Damn, I lost my lunch!"
While he was looking we threw down a bunch
of dried stuff -- raisins, apricots, and prunes;
they gleamed up at him through the crap like runes,
in delight he cocked his leg, began a jig
and swore "I am a happy truffle-pig."
This cop, though weird, was sharp and soon succeeded
in getting all the evidence he needed.
We told the cop we didn’t mean to hurt her,
but unconvinced, he booked us for her murder.
We told the cop we didn’t mean to hurt her,
but unconvinced, he booked us for her murder
And so, at last we have a change of scene,
the villains get to tackle the machine
Eventually we ended up in court.
Publicity was huge. The trial was short.
Or if not short, at least not very long;
we kept repeating, like a shitty song,
the same old hackneyed refrain; "She deserved it!"
To which the judge replied, "You're all bald perverts!"
and dashed our hopes. "Your crimes are myriad
and weird. You're sentenced to a period
of 100 years. Case dismissed!"
He banged his gavel hard. Boy he was pissed!
But the poor cop had learned to love macabre
with anything less weird he wouldn't bother.

[Marion Shore]

The moral: shit always seeks its own level.
And so, dear Mabel-- We'll see you with the devil!

[Marion Shore]

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO COME BACK TO FUNEXCISE!

I thought my last entry had brought this magnificent saga to its satisfying (dare I say, welcome) conclusion. But, alas, I find myself haunted by one more scene, which I place in the form of an Epilogue.


EPILOGUE

Words of the Tour Bus Guide

You see this big old house there on the right?
It's haunted, folks. They say that every night,
Out of the outhouse, 'round about eleven,
A headless ghost walks, stinking to high heaven.

[Michael Cantor]

He say's he's cursed, that he can never rest,
because of some bizarre eternal quest
to find his final couplet. Don't be enticed -
the poor dumb chum must be a poetergeist!




[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited July 28, 2004).]

[Donna English]

ROFLOL!!!! Stink to high heaven--poetergiest! I love it! Glad the outhouse line helped add direction this wonderfully shitty poem! It's a gas!

Cheers to all who contributed!

[Clay Stockton]

He say's he's cursed, that he can never rest,
because of some bizarre eternal quest
to find his final couplet. Don't be enticed -
the poor dumb chum must be a poetergeist!

I think he's finally found it! Thanks, Mike & Marion, for the hilarious ending(s)!

[David Anthony]

Shows what Erato can do at its heightened and sensitive best.
Time for another? Needs a starting line though.