Guest Blogger: The Cold Sheet Blues

Here's another favorite from guest blogger Isaac. If you want, read it as I do, and picture a young Isaac, curled up under his cold, cold sheets until the wee hours of the morning, desperately trying to get warm and penning this song.

Cold Sheet Blues

Stumbled into bed at a quarter to three
I’d come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee
Tired to the bone well here’s the news
I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Doing the refrigerator roll from left to right
No sleep in sight for me tonight
Counting sheep by ones and twos
Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

My covers are quite ample
For such a little runt
But how good can a comforter be
With Garfield on the front?

Teeth are chattering like gossiping geese
Why can’t my blanket be made of fleece?
Banged my knee now I’ll have a bruise
Oh, I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues

Numbers on the wall read a quarter to five
I need at least three hours to survive
What’s a man got to do to get a snooze?
Stop thinking ‘bout his cold sheet blues

Dayquil or Nyquil, which one to choose?
‘Cause I got a bad case of the cold sheet blues
Those low down (yeah low down) downtown (yeah downtown)
Cold feet cold nose cold fingers cold toes
Cold sheet blues… yeah

Isaac promises that there is an actual recording of this song, and as soon as we can get it converted from cassette tape to digital format, I guarantee an audio blog of the "Cold Sheet Blues."

New Guest Blogger: Too good to wait...

My new friend Isaac offered to share some of his teenage poetry and it's pretty amazing. Certainly lives up to the standards held on this blog for embarrassing adolescent versification. He has graciously shared many, many fine poems, which will be revealed here over time, but for his first guest post, I have to go with the one that made me laugh the most.

Untitled (by Isaac)

I once met a clown with a button red nose
Who said I'd meet a girl with a face like a rose
I snapped his suspenders and went on my way
All the while chuckling and saying "That'll be the day"

Well old clownypoo had a bit too much seltzer
And chased me down with his giant feet of thunder
"She'll have eyes like diamonds" he said with a start
I replied "Not freakin' likely, you senile old fart"

But the polka-dotted pauper, well he was persistent
And nipping at my heels he was in an instant
"She'll make you smile every time she talks"
I thought he'd had too many whiskeys on the rocks

So onward I went with speed, but so too did he
"She'll lump your throat and weaken your knees"
Trying to act macho, I said no woman could do that
He smirked and said "She will in two seconds flat"

So I asked old clowny how he knew so much
"I guess I was born with a magic touch"
I said "If you're so great, why've you got this job?"
He replied "My girl came and went, and now I'm a slob"

The regret in his eyes told me that it was true
So I bought us some coffee and a table for two
And the man laid it on me, a tale so somber
His empty-hearted words stay with me forever

"I had my chance and was too blind to see
I feared she loved another, and gave up easily
Don't do the same, my reluctant companion
'Cause that girl, I tell you, will be one in a million"

Now this young clown would like to say
He knows just what the old guy meant that day
Be my girl, make my knees weak
And let me smile every time you speak

Man, what I would have done to have access to the intimate inner-workings of the male teenage mind when I was in middle/high school. Thanks Isaac, for finally satisfying my curiosities!

Guest Post: Guacamole Highway

Ok, this next poem is by Guest Blogger Genevieve. It's also about food. And it's a song! Sung to "Every Day is a Winding Road" by Sheryl Crow. And here it is:

Cruisin' on the Guacamole Highway

I've often driven down that guacamole highway
Those guacamole fishes give me a smile
I got behind their guacamole school bus
And we were driving for quite a while
Eat those corn chips
Look up, and smile at the fish
All the fishies are high
All the fishies are low
I can't say more, 'cause that's all I know
Every road is a guacamole road
Drive a little bit faster.
Every watch says a guacamole time
Drive a little bit faster,
We're feelin' fine.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I had another weird obsession in 7th grade. It was with guacamole fish. Yes, guacamole fish. I don't even know what that means at this point, but apparently, when I was 12, I thought the idea of a fish made out of guacamole was all the rage. Whatever, I was a weird kid. But at least I wasn't alone in my weirdness; thank god for a friend who would write songs about guacamole fish with me.

Guest Blogger: A Treatise on "The Crush"

Genny is back and better than ever with another guest blog post. For those of you wanting a little more background on just who this guest blogger is, read on:

Genevieve began her poetry career at the wee age of 11 when she was better known as "Baloney." Since then she has obviously escalated to bigger and better things in life, and these days she's pretty classy. She attended Washington State University in Pullman where she learned a few things, among those;
1) how to sled down an icy hill in a rubbermaid bucket
2) how to exploit the disability van for rides around campus
3)Don't EVER drink ANYTHING blue.
In her free time she enjoys finger puppets, Phil Collins, swedish fish, and sledding to the 80's, which is similar to sweating to the 80's, but without the sweat.

So with that in mind, put yourself in the shoes of young Genevieve, who so aptly summarized the wistful pining we all expereinced with our first (or second, or twelth) big middle school crush, and I think you'll be able to relate to where she was coming from.

Crush

Have you ever liked someone and wanted to tell them, but you weren't sure that you could? Have you ever wanted them to know it, but weren't sure if they should?
Have you ever felt like there might be something, but decided otherwise?
Have you ever wondered why it was him, instead of one of the other guys?
Have you ever not really understood what made you feel this way?
You know what you want to tell him, but you're waiting for the right day.
You know it really is what you want, but it's so out of your reach,
Why can't it be someone easier?
But maybe the reason it seems complicated, is because there's a lesson to teach.
One I haven't learned yet, but really should.
And even if it doesn't turn out right,

The lesson I learned was good.
I wish that I knew everything, so it would be this way,
I could make it a lot easier, but I wouldn't know what to say.

Why I am liking him seems complicated in my mind.
Maybe it's because I wish for someone who is one of a kind
Who can understand when I need it a lot
Who doesn't have to be super hot
Who likes me for the person inside
And isn't out to "get a free ride"
Who would always respect me through and through
Someone like that would be really cool.
Also hard to find and imitate, but anyone close would be worth the wait.

And Genny adds that this poem is "dedicated to 'Donovan Mitten' (secret nickname for middle school crush) who I last saw sitting on a random porch with everyone else I used to know in high school, drinking keystone light from a can with a broken car parked in the yard."

Hmm, sounds like he might not have been worth the wait.

Guest Blogger!!

I haven't been able to update (or rather, I haven't gotten around to updating) for a while because a) my computer's power cord died and hasn't been replaced, so I haven't been surgeically attached to my laptop quite so much, and b) it's Christmas and I've been busy chilling with the family.

So in my absence, I give you the first post from guest blogger Genny (aka my 7th grade poem writing soul mate):

The Hampsters of Room 16B and the Nerf Ball Massacre
(by Genny)

Living merrily in a cage, hampsters frolicked, or so they did...
I'll tell you the story of old time and age, which happened when I was a kid.

To Oak Hills School I did go, my class was room 16B.
A tank full of hampsters, 3 were named Joe, and those 3 belonged to me.

They became weary of their old cage, sometime in May I think.
They escaped and we look everywhere, even the classroom sink.

We cried and blubbed and sobbed and weeped. Our hampsters, they were gone!
All three Joes' I missed them so (but I changed one of their names to Shawn).

We left for gym class to play dodgeball, despite our scurvy luck.
Boy those Joes (and one named Shawn) they really are a schmuck!

A bag of Nerf's lay on the ground, basking in their own glory-
"now stop it you kid! Don't interrupt now! Just let me finish my story!"

Now this part is tragic, PG-13 I must say, or maybe even R.
This was a bad end for those Joe's (and one named Shawn) even worse than a squish by a car!

Now I picked up those Nerfs and I threw 'em real hard, at a weird girl named Delore.
Out fell old Joe (or maybe Shawn?) laying on the floor!

It swigged and stammered here and there and then fell flat on it's back.
We threw more balls and more hampsters fell out, and this is REALLY wack.

They moved into the balls because it was soft and better than bark dust you see,
I took it on myself to save those hampsters, and so did she and he.

All were present and accounted for except Suzanne and Fred.
3 were missing, 5 were hurt and 4 were plan out dead!

We held a funeral for the 4 under the sycamore tree,
(I think it was the day I kicked Louanna and then got stung by a bee).

A 14 nerf gun salute we gave the missing and then stood proud, solemn and tall.
But that got old really quick, so we went off to play wall ball.

Living merrily in a cage, hampsters frolicked, or so they did...
I'll tell you the story of old time and age, which happened when I was a kid.

And the reviews are already in: "A heartwarming, apolopytic tale of the fragility of mammal life and the frivolty and materialism that is taught in society's modern schools" -The Washington Post, Rhymeworm Weekly