There was a nice teacher named Gwen,
Whose students kept talking, and then,
I won’t say this twice.
I’ll stop being nice,
If I have to say “Quiet” again.
Author Archives: Miss Kitten
Eau de Yuppie
In a few weeks’ time,
The Swede and I will be moving.
The current occupants,
Of the soon-to-be-ours apartment,
At first seemed very nice.
They sold to us for cheap,
Things they put in the place,
Custom blinds, a dishwasher,
And a built-in microwave.
Also, they’ve got a lot of stuff,
And were we interested in any of it?
Well, we do need more furniture.
We’ll come over and take a look.
The wanted to sell us,
Just about everything they had,
Couches, desks, shelves,
Sideboards, and even curtains.
But particularly…
Their dining room table and chairs.
They were nice. Quite nice, in fact.
And very expensive when they were new.
(They made a point of telling us,
How much everything cost,
When they bought it new.)
“These were the most expensive
Chairs in the country!”
Yes, but they are also,
The ugliest chairs in the country,
Stark, modern, Scandinavian design.
Not to my taste at all.
And even though the table and chairs,
Cost more than four months’
Of my current salary when new.
And they’re selling them,
For one months’ salary,
I’m not paying that for second-hand
Stuff that I don’t really like.
But they did have other furniture,
That we liked, and said we wanted.
But they seemed to be insulted,
That we weren’t interested in buying,
The over-priced table and chairs.
Like how could we not want them?
Didn’t we understand how nice they were,
And what a deal we were getting??
How dare we turn them down?!
So, no deal. No sale.
They wouldn’t sell us the desk,
The shelves or anything else.
“We’ll have no more of that!!!”
They said, dismissively and rudely,
Like an impatient parent,
Admonishing a recalcitrant,
Four year-old child.
When we move in,
I’m going to burn nag champa,
In every room.
To rid the place,
Of the lingering smell,
Of Eau de Yuppie.
No Adjective
The way I feel,
No adjective.
I need a pill,
A sedative.
Before I lose my
Will to live.
I’m running out of
Shits to give.
Sunshine on the Rocks
Still frozen at Middle March.
Minus thirteen at seven am.
Yet, sunny. Bright azure sky.
Sun shines grey off the rocks.
White in the shadows.
Even its diluted warmth,
Somehow makes me sun drunk.
It penetrates the frigid air,
And mixes a chilly cocktail.
Sunshine and Swedish vodka,
Shaken and served over ice.
Nose Prose
God only knows,
After so many blows,
Just when my poor nose,
Will stop running,
I suppose.
For it runs quite a lot.
And won’t seem to stop.
And just when you think,
That it’s over,
It’s snot.
Giddy
It’s Monday!
And that’s fantastic!
You might think,
I’m being sarcastic,
But, I’m not.
Not in the least.
The sun is blazing!
And it’s amazing,
How much my happiness,
Increased!
The Furry Observer
My clothes laid out, nicely,
Neatly and precisely,
What I’m planning,
On wearing tomorrow.
I leave the room, briefly.
Unaware that discretely,
From a hair covered chair,
I’m observed.
Then looking innocently,
At me nonchalantly,
Lies the furry observer,
On my clothes.
Slow and Civilized
We needn’t be in a big hurry, I said.
So let’s take a trip by train instead.
Off we’ll go, at a reasonable pace.
We’ll be on vacation, not in a race.
Let’s paint pictures and drink wine.
Enjoy the scenery, take our time.
We’ll travel in a more civilized way,
Though not so often done today.
Would’ve been described by Jane Austen.
Had trains been invented way back then.
Shiny Music
I like my music a little rough.
I want it to have texture.
It should scratch my skin,
Cut me to the bone,
Devastate me, destroy me.
Illuminate me and get me off.
Good music is like good sex,
Touching me in private places.
Coming in ecstatic spurts of brilliance.
Now, the Eurovision Song Contest,
Is mostly unheard of in America.
But it’s massive in Europe.
Bigger than the Academy Awards,
And the Superbowl, combined.
One might assume that,
The purpose of such a contest,
Is to celebrate greatness, but no.
It’s actually a festival of mediocrity.
Of songs designed and manufactured,
By a whole teams of song writers.
Who style and blow dry and polish them,
Until every bit of roughness is buffed off.
Then they package them,
Wrap them up in plastic,
Till they’re nice and shiny.
And dangle them in front the,
Lowest Common Goldfish.
