Poetry for tortured souls — edicion primero

10 09 2007

I’m feeling emotional. My heart is like a, a beating piston something. It’s like, beating, you know. Thump de thump. Over and over again. Besides indicating that I am in fact alive, this beating of my heart indicates somehow that I feel like writing poetry. I’m even wearing a corduroy cap right now. (You can’t prove a negative, so there.) Here goes nothing:


O Island Cafe, how I revel in your fake palm fronds
Bleach-haired himbos and babelicious blondes.
The best seat in the house is by the animatronic parrots —
See my cheesy Hawaiian shirt? I dare you to wear it.
I’d rather string some flowers around my neck, wanna trade?
‘Cause this might be my one and only chance to get leid.
O Island Cafe, how wonderful you are
Especially when I get a$10 daiquiri from the bar
Bring me some chips ‘n salsa, say you will
‘Cause I’ve wasted away all the salt in Margaritaville
When I go to the bathroom in a heady whirl,
I spring for the door decorated with a hula girl
‘Cause if I go for surfer dude,
I’ll be in the men’s room and that’s rude.
O Island Cafe, how I dig your seasoned fries
But to say this crap tastes good is a pile of lies
The only reason I’m here is for the crappy greenery
And all of that (if you catch my drift) island scenery.