keeps me from posting
on a far away page
keeps me suppressing
all this ire and rage
I spend my time just keeping track
of all the wars that I’d wage
soon as they let me out of this
The mood just got sour
and someone’s ’bout to
feel the wrath of my power
quick, someone tell Matt Lauer
get the cameras here
they’ve got less than a half hour
’cause someone just offered me
a copy of “The Watchtower”
I was dumbfounded, witless
How the hell could she know
that I was Hova’s witness?
Jay-Z’s words like a right cross
from the science of sweetness —
So I lifted my voice
with a psalm of praise
and instead of a quote,
If you’re having faith problems
I feel bad for you, son.
I’ve got 99 problems
but your God ain’t one.
I usually keep track of inventory,
stocking up on the essentials
such as sugar and caffeine
and much needed pantry items
like rest, patience, and nice.
Well, an abrasive gentleman before me
missed a num lock cue and concluded
that the keyboard was busted.
Deep within my soul, I searched —
Do you have any Nice?
Fresh out, my friend.
You used it all two hours ago
and you forgot to get some more.
Low on rest and patience, too —
I suggest you find a bunker.
Impossible, I thought,
but memory betrayed me,
sneaking bitterness in my grocery bag
when I had procured some Nice.
That vengeful bastard.
Can you make some Nice instead?
Brilliant, Fukui San
but the secret ingredient is trout —
I suggest you slap him with it.
Memory has been reading IRC logs again.
Hell-o! I said your keyboard is BUSTED.
Are you deaf or just retarded?
Calm blue ocean shark infested
hiding sunken ships and bodies —
scumbag pirates. Calm, peaceful ocean.
Hey! Your keyboard is busted!
And your machines are damn slow
I am wasting my time here
and you are no help —
Sticking to his talking points.
Peaceful meadow, quiet breeze
with soft sunlight on my face
and pollen triggering allergies
with sneezing and discomfort.
Face it, kiddo — out of Nice.
Sir, I suggest knowing number lock
lest you find me busting that keyboard
by typing qwerty on the back
of your thick skull. I asked my soul
and he said I was out of Nice.
Definition of indignant stupidity.
Yes, the machines are slow
Yes, you are one ugly moron
and it seems neither of us
can remedy either situation.
Instead I walked over, pressed a key
enabling numlock and quietly stepped away,
scraping on the pantry shelf for
a grain or two — the only thing to do
when your soul runs out of Nice.
I am no life of the party,
my humor cold and dry
nobody ever seems to laugh
since my pranks go awry
I find it very difficult
to try and make amends
but as a necromancer,
I am always making friends.
I make for awkward conversation —
my interests arcane
and some folks wonder loudly
if I am legally insane.
I’m sure it wasn’t personal
when one rogue called me a witch
so I summoned forth his mother’s bones
and pimped her as my bottom bitch.
Others are more violent —
with my death in their plans
which I render as amusing
by causing them to dance
then we see who’s a pariah
for when this story ends
I’d have cast a strong enchantment
that suggests he kill his friends.
He loves Hawaiian bread
He drowned Estoceans dead,
He tweets his words to a flock of birds
And he cordially answers to “Fred”
His pet piranha shares the name
And his desire to kill and maim
They talk with pride of genocide
As the path to glorious fame
He had assumed none would survive
yet one Estocean is left alive
Task incomplete, back on his feet
“A quick hit job, I’ll be home by five.”