Monday, May 30, 2016

The Chunky Chiseled Beefsquatch

The Chunky Chiseled Beefsquatch
 By Cam Flanagan

The day was a catafield failure that turned into a Twinkie genocide

We were hoping to get shots of the Chunky Chiseled Beefsquatch for the Golden Box

Leaving just before dawn, we went on our way, to the place they say, they saw the Beefsquatch yawn

Skidmarks was hot, getting lots of shots of the flighty, Flat Chested Whiner Bird

She caught the waxing and waning, fleeting and fainting, Theater of The Absurd

The bird sang and sang the same old tune, till her mate went away for the day

Time did fly, so I waved goodbye, knowing Skidmarks wanted to stay

Just two of us now, a couple of clowns; we hopped in the brown sit down

After driving for hours, staring at flowers; Mo lost control, and the Rover drove over a sow

I grabbed the other under cover and reached around, but Jack was nowhere right now

Hot and wet, dripping with sweat, we sighed and frowned about the ground

I quipped ~bout Mo’s skills a bit, and hit my chin on her fist

Mo was insulted, but twas my face that melted, and my smile that had been dissed

Somehow then, I dropped my lens, and kicked its crevasse to a hole

Tried as I might to retrieve it, I feigned the Cobra should keep it, when the Fire Ants told me to go

Pissed off and shouting, I lost all my routing and tumbled ass over wit

I emerged tired and spent, broken and bent, smelling a bit like shit

I looked to the sky, started to cry; my day a grand twist of fate

Mo, being a nurse, pulled from her purse; a creamy, box of sponge cake

Tempted by gold, the Beef grew bold and emerged from just out back

Eyes fixed, teeth bared; drooling over our snack

It walked up beside us, grabbed and denied us, our only moment of glean

The Squatch stuffed its face, grinned in disgrace, with teeth full of plastic and cream

True to The Theater Absurd, it flipped us the bird, whirled and turned; disappearing as it faded away

No proof it exists, ~cept legends and quips, can be offered for you today 

So I stand here before you, plead and implore you, to believe my bad riddled tale

For there’s no photo provided, for the telling decided, of my sad little, epic fail

Yet because I adore you and don’t wish to bore you, and ~cause the telling is true

Good people you are, a right you have; I know that closure is due

And I was thinking, now that we’re drinking, that this tale had no kind of ending

So with joy in my heart and spring in my start; I’d like to invite you all to our wedding.

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