Jeff's online journal, ramblings, whatever.

And now, for something completely different. . .

I’ve noticed that a lot of the entries in here are kind of angsty, and I don’t want to put across the impressions that that’s all that rules my life nowadays. So, without further adieu, here’s a poem I wrote a while ago for an English class:

When Bob walked in the maid was there
Dusting off the kitchen chair
The butler, in his formal way
Supervised the kitchen play.

The cook was sharpening knives and forks
Preparing meals of beefs and porks
While Bob was looking at this display of meat,
The butler asked him to take a seat.

Soon Joe came in and sat next to him.
Then John, then Gus, then little Jim.
Each came in and took a chair
Not knowing what was to happen there.

John said, “I hope we have chicken soup.”
Joe talked about his new Ford Coupe.
Small talk, small words, but each had thought
About the food that they had sought.

Then the butler scurried in
Amidst the noise and growing din.
He set down plates of hot hors d’oeuvres
Sprinkled with spices, salt, and herbs.

Then in came the communist
Who ruled his country with an iron fist.
He stole the appetizers; then he ran.
Back to a country past Pakistan.

That’s when the butler caught on fire
Fixing up a broken tire.
His back went out, so did his knees.
He dropped the macaroni and cheese.
With peas.

Of course, then Bill Nye sprinted in
In a marathon that he did win,
Then Gus stood up, in a lurpy way
and announced to everyone that he was gay.

I know this story made no sense.
I didn’t even include the fake Clark Kents
Although this poem was not a winner,
At least it included a progressive dinner.

In other news, they got me doin’ sound for Hunt Murder Mystery again, which I haven’t done since 2000, so it should be interesting. But the next show they’re doing Annelise is directing, and it stars both Casey and Billy’s older sister Becky, so it oughtta be quite a fun ride.

I shall leave this entry with two things. First, a bit of self-referential humor regarding the Rescue Rangers. Second, a quote that may explain my bouts of angstyness:

“There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic,and still others where it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.” –Colette (whoever that is.)

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