Review in Doggerel: “The Tricking of Freya”

October 1, 2009 at 3:29 pm | Posted in Rude Poetry | Leave a comment

Spoilers:

A lady with manic depression

Commits a most grave indiscretion.

When she’s feeling manic

She chants in Icelandic

And when she’s depressed

She goes round half undressed.

Around her a mystery revolves

Which the protagonist finally solves.

The story’s quite nice

Filled with frost, snow, and ice.

The Whistle Poem

June 30, 2009 at 9:19 am | Posted in Rude Poetry | Leave a comment

You know I don’t care at

all where you got that whistle,

Neighbor Child,

come what may

because since my parrot

has heard you play it, this’ll

drive me wild

night and day.

Books to Move

April 15, 2009 at 11:05 pm | Posted in Rude Poetry | 2 Comments

My rendition of Bust a Move, with apologies to Young MC:

This here’s a jam for all the nation

Tryin’a move to a new location

Don’t enjoy the elimination

Of books you read for recreation

Okay smarty, your shelves are shoddy

If they fell they’d never find your body

You bring books home, they seem interesting

Then they’re stacking up the wall like they was infesting

Your new function, time-card punchin’

Start that packing, til your back’s hunchin’

Better start soon while you have the chance

And you should just be glad, don’t have to ship to France

You know it’s shocking, what you’re stocking

Those books look at you like they’re mocking

Getting stacked too high and they don’t approve

So come on pack-rat you’ve got books to move

 

You’re on a mission and you’re wishin’

You never got into this condition

Lookin’ around and your whole place is

All filled up with tall bookcases

Some frustration first inclination

Is just to disappear and leave the situation

But every dark tunnel has a light of hope

So you’ll choose a shelf, you won’t sit there and mope

Your pace is slowing, just keep going

Could care less about the stuff you’re throwing

All of that work, all you’ve got to show

Is another apartment stacked up row by row

You want to bellow, can’t be mellow

Want to slam the door and say Hell No

You drive over there without a second to lose

And what comes next, more books to move

 

You want ’em, you brought ’em

You want ’em, baby you brought ’em

Got books to move

 

It’s not pretty, your eyes are gritty

You know you feel like Walter Mitty

You’d procrastinate for just one more day

You don’t even want to think what these boxes weigh

Your back’s achin’, you’re not fakin’

Start again the minute that you awaken

Got no mover here to pack your car

You just got to do it, so there you are

It’s just masochistic, solving the logistic

Getting all these books to fit’s not realistic

You’re filling up the boxes according to plan

But the trouble is, y’already filled up the van

You’ve got the dolly rollin’, feet are swollen,

Starting to wish that all your stuff got stolen

The house is stacked with crates to remove

You wish you had no books to move

 

Got books to move

Box ’em up for me fellas

 

So much to carry that your friends are wary

You’ll end this day, in the cemetery

You called to see if they could come lend a hand

They’ve been hauling books until they barely can stand

You buy pizza, and they all eat some

And roll out the door to get back their freedom

They want to leave just to change the setting

And that’s all the help that you’ll be getting

So you start thinking, these books are stinking

Been a long week and spirits are sinking

You’d better take a break or hurt your back

And it’ll take the whole year for you to get unpacked

Amazon’s selling, there’s no telling

Just how many books will ship from your dwelling

Now you’ve got a theory to disprove

Next time there won’t be all those books to move

 

No books to move

Move it boy

Jodi Picoult

April 8, 2009 at 5:38 am | Posted in Rude Poetry | 5 Comments

Jodi Picoult

I’d like to know

What do you do with all your dough?

Your books sure seem to sell well, though

I wonder just how low you’ll go

With sensationalism, blow by blow.

Can’t Touch This

March 20, 2009 at 6:30 pm | Posted in Rude Poetry | 4 Comments

With apologies to MC Hammer:

I can’t publish (5x)

I, I, ideas hit me so hard

Make me say, “Oh my Lord

Thank you for blessing me

‘Cause I’ve got free time and I type quickly.”

It’s no good, when they turn me down

As I shop my novel all over town

I don’t like it much:

The thing is my book, uh, they won’t touch

I told my agent (I can’t publish)

They ain’t even reading and you know (I can’t publish)

Look at my book, man (I can’t publish)

Yo, let me bust the funky lyrics (I can’t publish)

Spend the whole advance

On a penthouse flat, if I only had a chance

To prove I’m the elite

I’ll make the top ten and have them beat

It’s my calling, to write

Type a little bit and keep it going all night

No slack, no slack

Signed first editions stacked in the back

Then they’ll know, my talent’s much

But this is a book, uh, they won’t touch

Yo, I told you (I can’t publish)

Shouldn’t even dare, man (I can’t publish)

Yo, writing’s hell, just give in, sucka (I can’t publish)

I got a plot, twist ending

Make ’em sweat, it is just mind bending

Now, they know

You talking about this author you talking about a show

I type, all night

Always sweating to get it just right

So the page, will turn

What’s it gonna take for the public to learn

I’m so legit?

I work so hard and I’m not gonna quit.

Use words that you don’t know…

I can’t publish (3x)

I’ll break down!  Stop, writer time!

Go out on tour, it is said

That you’ll finally get famous after you are dead

Do something strange to your hair

Wear some weird clothes, and get that eccentric flair

Pulitzer, I’m a winner

Auction a chance to have me to dinner

Sit, on that rump

‘Cause at this minute I’m just in a slump, slump, slump…

Yeah… (I can’t publish)

Look, man (I can’t publish)

Glad I can type, boy, because you know (I can’t publish)

What the hell, I give in (I can’t publish)

I’ll break down!  Stop, writer time!

Every time you see me

I just sit there and type

I’m still pretty poor and there’s no success in sight

Now why did I ever start doing this?

I can’t stop writing novels I can’t submit

In bookstores ’round the world, from London to the Bay

It’s “Writer, O Writer, Mr. Writer, hey Writer”

And I swear I’ll have my day

I can’t publish (8x)

I Like Big Books and I Cannot Lie

February 4, 2009 at 6:56 pm | Posted in Rude Poetry | 37 Comments

With apologies to Sir Mix-a-Lot:

[Intro]

Oh, my, god.  Becky, look at her book.

It is so big.  She looks like,

One of those writers’ girlfriends.

But, you know, who understands those writers?

They only talk to her, because,

She looks like a dang librarian, ‘kay?

I mean, that book, is just so big.

I can’t believe it’s just so thick, it’s like,

A tome, I mean – whoa.  Look!

She’s got a stack!

I like big books and I cannot lie

You other bloggers can’t deny

I’ve got my books stacked up in an itty bitty space

And one in front of my face

I read Proust, I don’t think it’s so tough

You might notice I can’t get enough

At the fat books I’m staring

I’m hooked on the book comparing

O Author, I want your signature –

Autographed picture

My dilemma is thorny

A big book has just got to adorn me

Ooh, readin’ women

You say you want to impress my friends?

Well, bring grub, don’t flub

‘Cause we ain’t the average book club

I’ve seen them chit-chat

To hell with groups like that

We read, feed

We’ve got all the discussion you need

I’m tired of magazines

I say fat books are the thing

Take the average reader and ask him that

I got a full backpack

So, fellas!  (Yeah!)  Fellas!  (Yeah!)

Has your girlfriend got a book?  (Hell yeah!)

Tell her to share it!  (Share it!)  Share it!  (Share it!)

Share that heavy book!

Baby got book!

(Pulitzer Prize, Man Booker also)

Baby got book!

I like ’em thick, and big

And complicated like Trig

I just can’t help myself, I’m actin’ like a recluse

Now here’s my excuse

I wanna get it home

And ugh, read all night, ugh, ugh

I ain’t talkin’ bout Netflix

‘Cause some books are gonna be my picks

I want ’em real thick and juicy

So find that juicy novel

I might even grovel

Lookin’ for a book in my hovel

I don’t waste time watchin’ videos

At the mall shoppin’ for clothes

I am not a bimbo

I’ve got the book readin’ mojo

A word to the lit crit sisters, I wanna get with ya

And discuss literature

But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna read

Till the break of dawn

Books got it goin’ on

Novice readers won’t like this song

‘Cause when they just don’t get it, they quit it

But I’ve got the need to read

If it’s long, can’t go wrong

When I’m down to get some fiction on

So, Larry!  (Yeah!)  Mary!  (Yeah!)

If you wanna check out my library  (Yeah!)

Then come around!  Check it out!

Even frat boys got to shout

Baby got book!

Baby got book!

Yeah, baby… when it comes to reading, Cosmo ain’t got nothing

To do with my selection.  Say you’re only on page 36?  Ha ha, ‘m already in chapter three.

So your reading tastes are shoddy, rather work on your Pilates

Everybody’s more impressed if you are good at karate

The literati don’t care none

Unless you read books, hun

On the bus, in the bathtub

But please don’t lose that book

Some people don’t have the attention

For literary invention

They see a book and leave it

I see it but I don’t believe it

Cosmo’s about fashion

Not the bookish passion

When you’re at the mall and you’re contemplatin’

Some readin’ meditation

The pointless features in the magazines:

They just ain’t the thing!

Give me a classic, or I’ll go spastic

Ring it up on the plastic

Some knucklehead might have missed

All the classics on my list

He’d rather sit around, watch TV

Won’t be able to compete with me

So ladies who have books around

And who might want a Scrabble throw down,

B-O-T-H-E-Y-E-S

Is the blog for your thoughts

Baby got book!

Bookmark in the middle of a paperback [4x]

…Writing a spoof of “Baby Got Back” was much harder than it looks!

BT, DT, MAWR

January 14, 2009 at 12:06 am | Posted in Rude Poetry | 1 Comment

People sometimes ask how I read so many books.  I’ve always replied that I don’t really do anything else with my free time.  What I’ve left out is that it wasn’t always this way.  Why, I’ve done lots of things!

Been There, Done That, Might as Well Read

Who says my life is other than full?

I have ridden a mechanical bull!

I’ve marched in the Rose Bowl Parade

(The clarinet is what I played).

I went to Cancun to swim with dolphins

And searched on eBay for collectable tins.

I can dance from mambo to fox trot

And cook up quite a meal in my crockpot.

I got married in the Church of Elvis

And dislocated my hip (but didn’t break my pelvis).

I went to college for a history degree;

I came in second in the county spelling bee.

I wrote and performed in an Elizabethan masque,

And if you want to read it, you just have to ask.

I’ve studied French, Japanese, Spanish, and Greek

– and Latin – but I read them better than I speak.

I once got my toes sucked in public, on stage,

Though I blame that now on my callow young age.

I’ve been in the paper and then on TV,

Met a talking crow, and even hugged a tree.

I’ve ridden with sled dogs and in a limousine,

Gone on horseback, and in a submarine.

I’ve gone out in public dressed as a Viking

And four times I’ve taken the risk of hitchhiking.

I can do the limbo lower than three feet

And I’ve ridden a unicycle two yards down the street.

I’ve been to New Zealand, Las Vegas, and LA,

The Grand Canyon, Central Park, and Bodega Bay.

I’ve been exorcised and had my palm read.

After all those things, I’d rather read instead!

I don’t want to snorkel or learn to sky dive

Just leave me alone until Chapter Five.

You can have your hang glider or hot air balloon,

Climb Mt. Everest or land on the moon,

Win at bingo or join the Senate –

Right now I’m busy with Elizabeth Bennet.

I don’t have a tattoo or a navel ring

But otherwise, I’ve done about everything.

I don’t care if it’s all the rage,

I’ll just skip all that and finish my page.

I’m not motivated by pride or greed –

Been there, done that, might as well read!

James Joyce

January 8, 2009 at 11:57 pm | Posted in Rude Poetry | Leave a comment

James Joyce, James Joyce

Here’s a question I must voice:

Did you aim to confuse folks

By choice?

Stephenie Meyer

December 9, 2008 at 12:27 am | Posted in Rude Poetry | 2 Comments

Stephenie Meyer

You must never tire:

Your stack of published books grows higher

And your keyboard is on fire.

That much I admire,

Though Twilight is dire.

Wally Lamb

December 5, 2008 at 6:15 pm | Posted in Book Blather, Rude Poetry | 6 Comments

We went to see Wally Lamb last night.  He’s adorable in person, clearly comfortable standing behind a lectern from his 25-year career as a high school teacher.  I bet he was everyone’s favorite, too.  He has kind eyes.  He’s funny, a very animated speaker, and sometimes one of his eyebrows goes up.  Not only did he read well, but he did character voices too.

One of the amazing things was that we brought a little trouble with us, and Lamb was a lamb about it.  We had a four-year-old with us, and she got a bit restless.  Suddenly she was sitting up at the front of the room, facing the audience, making panting sounds – nothing too out-of-control, and something I probably did all the time at that age.  The trouble was, she was sitting there flashing her knickers at the time.  You could see Wally Lamb glance slightly in her direction, but he kept talking without a hitch.  It was actually pretty funny.  (Naturally her mommy took her to the back of the room for the rest of the show).

I’ve been to a number of readings over the years, and I’m always interested in what sort of questions come out of the audience afterward.  We saw David Sedaris last month, and to my mind, almost every question the audience asked was inappropriate.  So I was pleased that the Lamb fans were perhaps of a higher echelon.  (Not to say anything negative in any way about Sedaris, just that if he wrote 800-page books he might eliminate the weaker links from his fan base).  One lady said she was a retired high school principal, and that she was impressed by how Lamb had captured the emotions of the teen students so well in reaction to the Columbine shooting that she wondered how he had done it.  He said he worked with teenagers for years, too.  Another lady asked about his emotional reaction to his own characters as he was writing.  He said that when he wrote, he became the characters, and so he felt what they felt.  Of course my summary could never attempt to do justice to his answers, which seemed quite candid and full of real detail.

When we clapped and cheered, Wally Lamb blushed a little and mouthed, “Thank you.  Thank you.”

Trish got her moment in the sun, too.  She got to ask the final question of the night, which you can read about here if you haven’t already.  Sadly, though, when it came time to get her picture taken, the bookstore employee clicked the button just as she was trying to explain how to use the camera.  You’d think they could have snapped a second courtesy shot, but no!  So she’s caught on film in mid-speech, in what must be the least flattering picture of a genuinely cute person that was ever taken, while Wally Lamb looks great.  I told her she should totally use PhotoShop to paste in a picture of herself from a different reading so that she looks, well, actually like herself.  I mean, she did meet him and all.

There once was a writer named Lamb

Who got in a bit of a jam.

A fan brought a child

Whose behavior was wild

And he wished he could ask her to scram.

Next Page »

Blog at WordPress.com.
Entries and comments feeds.