While digging around the same said box that offered up the last horrifying glimpse into my then 12-year-old douche-bag (thank you, Dean McDermott) of a soul, this is another little gem I found. Penned by none other than our favorite professional volunteer mother, Indy, this is one of the many, many creative writings she effortlessly authored...
An Ode To Anita
You're sleeping again
With your head on your purse,
You're so easy to bug
And you call me a curse.
Your life is so boring,
You sleep it away,
I wish you'd wake up
'Cause I want to play.
I pull at your hair,
And you yell with a wheeze
Ani you know I would stop
If you'd only say 'please'.
Your hair is a mess,
You look like a frump
You SNEEZED so hard in Austria,
You fell on your rump.
But since you are tired
And not full of glee,
I guess you are too busy
To even notice me.
So Ani cheer up,
Don't sleep life away,
'Cause if you don't wake up
I won't go away.
I'll keep pulling your hair
And moving your purse,
And give you good reason
To call me a curse.
Well now class is over
And we're in the hall
So Ani wake up,
And do have a ball.
We've been through a lot
Like you and your shoes,
Hey Eileen, Guide Right
And the Great Senior Blues.
So Ani wake up
Don't be such a toad,
And we'll go to Denny's for
Pie a la mode.
Luf,
Eilee
I think this would have been more appropriately titled, "Ani, Wake Up!" or, even more aptly titled, "Mr. Reilly's History Class Was A Great Big Bore at 8:00 AM." Which I'm sure it wasn't -- if I had been awake I'm sure I would have been riveted. Anywho, here it is, in the annals of history in cyberspace. Cheers to you, Indy, for being a great poet of the late 20th century!
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4 comments:
Im reading your post with eyes full of tears. To think I was sober with out any beers.
Im glad you woke up to play with us all, quit brushing your hair so we can go to the mall!!
But aaahhh, your creativity knows no bounds, and is as endless as the untamed seas. I am, as ever, abysmally inadequate in poetic graces when standing next to you, Indy...
Ya, its bad when all the poetry I can regail my children with starts with there once was a man from mercene...Who invented a screwing machine. Both concave and convex, it would suit either sex, and it played with it's self inbetween.
OH.....you need to write a book.
Brilliance, I say, sheer brilliance!
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