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Spilt Milk Blues

I wrote this a few years ago (ok, more than a few…), and came across it recently, and it made me laugh out loud (which my work usually does not do). So, to give you, dear reader, a laugh:

 

 

Parody of W.H. Auden’s Funeral Blues

Stop all the pouring, cut off the flow,
Prevent the baby from crying with a jelly ‘O’,
Silence the brat and with muffled curse
Bring out the mop, let your lips purse.

Let mountains be made from the molehills, over your head,
Written in stone the message The Cow is Dead,
Put white ribbons on the necks of the bottles,
Make Mrs. Gustofson take off her baubles.

The milk flowed to my North, my South, my East, and West,
And spilt all over my Sunday best,
My rug, my tile, my shoes and nylon;
I thought it would wash out: I was wrong.

The cup is not wanted now; put it away,
Pack up the straw and put the baby to play,
Pour out the mop water and sweep up the glass,
For a second round of this, I’ll gladly pass.
April 2003

(all work belongs to me, so don’t go and get any ideas…)

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