An Uncle John’s Totally Twisted Tale
Once upon an evening cloudy,
as I blasted music loudly
Over a quaint and boring schoolbook
that had made me start to snore…
From my window came a-tapping—
echoing, persistent flapping.
Was it just the music rapping…
rapping louder than the score?
“Open up!” a grim voice uttered.
“My claws are getting very sore.”
Only this, then nothing more.
When I saw what there awaited;
well, I very nearly fainted.
Great and hulking was the creature
hunched upon the sill—and reeking.
Said he, “I’m no cute canary.
That’s the burden that I carry—
but truly, I am not that scary.
Please, don’t fear me anymore!”
Then the raw, repulsive creature
swept in like my phys. ed. teacher,
Stood upon my homework drooling—
drooling on my bedroom floor.
Once inside, he licked his chops.
“Now that’s enough!” I shrieked. “Please stop.”
“I must be fed.” The vile one said.
It lunged. I dove beneath the bed.
“Come out…come out. You need not fear.”
It bit me then—right on the rear.
Its mouth gaped wide, and in I threw
socks and sneakers, Fido, too.
Plastic soldiers, a ball (or four),
jacks and marbles, an apple core…
At last, the vulture cried, “No more!”
“What have you done?” The dread bird moaned.
And from its gut there came a groan.
A bellow, a rumble, a belch did start.
It clutched its belly and ripped…a fart.
The stench that swept across my room
filled me with horror. I gagged. I swooned.
I quaked and trembled ’neath my bed.
It hopped to the window and turned its head.
The fiend, that nasty carnivore,
its yellow eyes my own implored.
Then quoth the vulture—“Nevermore!”
THE END
“Airplanes are a good place to write poetry and then firmly throw it away. My collected works are mostly on the vomit bags of Pan Am and TWA.” —Charles McCabe