The Lawnmower

Feeling sort of melancholy lately.  Probably has to do with the dreary weather: days and sunless days of chilly rain, dim murky light, oppressive cloud cover.  Yuck.  Anyway, Darlin’ and I are doing quite well, my Twisted Sister is happy, the cat is thriving, and yet my mind wants to dwell on cheerless gray thoughts.  So I turn to a dark time in my past, and do a little exorcism of demons that pop up once and again.  My thought garden is susceptible to weeds, as is anyone’s, and on occasion I write bad poetry to clear it out.  I wrote this sparkling little rhyme a few days ago – I’ve just been thinking of a betrayal by a friend from years past.  This is her real name, but I think my sis is the only one who knows her, so it won’t hurt anybody’s feelings.  But I will post it and thereby satisfy my little compulsion for being a crankypants lately.  Here goes – the Lawnmower is what it’s called.

 

The girl is pretty and she knows

The boys are watching her wherever she goes

She likes their eyes, she likes their longing

She holds their desire like a bunch of balloons

The other end of the strings are tied

And she drags them along by their dicks as she goes

Katie Rose.

 

She’s pretty cocky

She’s pretty average

Nothing special about her dreams

Wants the same as everybody else, I guess

But she’s willing to leave behind a mess

Where a girlfriend used to stand

She left me in her wake, a broken friend

In a desperate state

Rosy little Kate.

 

I feel two stabs of pity

One for her and one for me

I could have done her like she done me

But I know where happiness lies

And it isn’t there

Katie Fair.

 

The years have rolled back

And I’ve forgot the guy

The deeper betrayal

Still weighs on my mind

And I don’t know why

I thought of it tonight

But I did

 

And I wanted to write

About Katherine Rose

My one time friend

Who swept across my life remorseless

And who I swept past

Surpassed

But not without a black mark

To remember her by.

 

The girl is damn pretty and she knows

And she grows

Less content with each mowed down woman

 

I can’t let her misdeeds

Worm their way

Into my garden.

I still like roses.

But no daughter of mine will have an aunt named Kate.