Making Friends
With Hitler

Early in the morning
I got up and went to work.
I got there, and to no surprise,
My boss, he went berserk.
I got there late as usual;
I live out in Eugene.
It’s quite a trip to Bend from there,
It’s really quite obscene.
I love my line of work, I do,
Even though I get there later;
There’s nothing else I’d rather do
Than be a museum curator.

Anyway, my boss was pissed
I was paralyzed with fear
He forced me to work overtime
Who cares? I love it here.
As midnight slowly rolled around
I wanted to retire
I kept awake by viewing
All these paintings I admire.

The gallery we’re holding now
has paintings of great dictators
A portrait of Napoleon,
of Castro, and his haters.
The one that really struck a chord
was one of a man playing golf.
He had a ‘stache below his nose;
you guessed it, 'twas Adolf.

He looked so happy in this one,
Uncharacteristically so.
It was as if he just’d had
A sugary cup of Joe.
I looked so closely at the frame
That Hitler appeared alive
His eyes were moving left and right
The grass began to thrive.
And thus I tapped upon his face,
and much to my chagrin,
he got up out of the painting, yes,
and grabbed me by the chin!

He looked right straight at my nametag
and he said “Ist einen Juden!”
(It’s true, my name is Goldenstein,
though my mother’s was McCluen)
He was irate and furious,
just like a textbook Nazi.
So I tried to calm him down,
I challenged him to Yahtzee.

Hitler wasn’t bad at this,
he rolled the dice quite well.
Though when he got a lower score
He started raising hell.
I calmed him down quite quickly,
Saying that I loved his hair.
I told him he looked dashing,
that his manners were debonair.
He blushed and said, “Oh, danke shern.”
He really was quite modest.
I quietly chuckled to myself,
his hairstyle was the oddest.

And so I let him win the game,
hey, what was I to do?
If he lost game he’d surely say
“The gas chambers for you!”

And so I bid my friend farewell,
he stepped back in the painting
I’m glad that no one else was there,
I’d have to stop the fainting.
So I made friends with Hitler
on this crazy autumn night.
Perhaps I changed his paradigm.
.......................YEAH RIGHT!!!

Possums, I feel like I should be appalled by parts of this poem, but I'm too busy laughing. =D

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I think, therefore I make comments on a forum.

I don't know whether to be puzzled or amused. I guess I liked it. Crazy shit, the kind of stuff I've built my life around. Shel Silverstein would be very proud.

---
The giant three-phallused phallus of Uzbekistan will one day squirt the cosmic jizz of revenge all over Canada.

Ich bin amused!

---
Do you want ants? Because that's how you get ants.

Your poem is very comforting to those of us who have always worried about whether or not Hitler was good at Yahtzee.

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

I wonder how he is at Scotland Yard.

Don't we all?

I dunno, but he's absolutely fabulous at Jumanji.

Here's another depressingly fucked up poem that I wrote, though it's not as humorous as that last one.

Our Mother’s Vestibule

You’ve never been so haunted
By a word that she had uttered.
You could hear her loud and clear,
even though she slightly stuttered.
Sitting on her just-made bed
she murmured it again
to make sure that you heard it
she would say it now and then.
She burned a fire in her eyes,
their air no longer cool
she looked right at you, with a glare
And said it... “VESTIBULE.”
You quickly ran back down the stairs
as though you were on embers.
If you could ask her you would see
how everyone remembers.
You were frightened, you were scared,
of that bold word, ‘vestibule’
Yes, when our mother said it
you’d become her own pack mule.
How sad it was to see your smile
in early photographs
You were bright and free,
You could garner many laughs.
But in the light of ‘vestibule’
You became a tortured soul.
Only eight, and look at you...
You’ve been eaten whole.

Possums, next time you see our hellish little friend, ask him to play "Life" with you...though they didn't have a evil empire ruler career card.

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It's not the crack, it's the 'caine.

Meine Kartoffel ist schwer! Ich will mein Kaese haben! Schnell! Schnell! Die mausen lieben mein Hosen!

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I will rate you hard, and unendingly.

The word "vestibule" is even worse when it is paired with the word "sashweights."

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

"My potato is heavy! I want to have my cheese! Fast! Fast! The mausen dear my trousers!"

Well. I'm sorry you feel that way.

Here are some other words that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up:

Hemorrhoid
Pantywaist
Clusterfuck
Jejune or Jejunum
Sigmoid (as in Sigmoid Colon)
Musty
Scrotum
Moist (who doesn't hate "moist?")
Sceptum
Harvest
Truncated
Kudos

And here are two more poems I wrote:

Banal

Ghosts of the past remember my soul
Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
I’m so lethargic.

The Duck's Funeral

Bereaving for the Muscovy
had never been so hard:
Barely anyone came that day;
he couldn't afford a bard.

"Roger Antiochus was his name,"
the priest had said.
"He died by hanging upside-down,
the blood ran to his head."

He quacked and quacked all day and night,
but no one heard the sound.
He breathed his very final breath
and fell right to the ground.

"Who amongst us, here today,
is guilty for this crime?"
The priest looked out in the crowd,
for an elongated time.

No one raised their hand or stirred,
no one even muttered.
In the back a mallard
bit the bread that he had buttered.

The priest stood up and said again,
"This will all be history!
You've turned this from a funeral
into a murder mystery!"

---------------

Part Two of this story will be arriving shortly.

"The Duck's Funeral" had a Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky"-esque quality to it.

I hope the word "'Jabberwocky'-esque" didn't upset you.

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

It upset me profusely and now I'm adding it to the list. In fact, anything that ends with "-esque" is a word that I don't like.

In fact:

[Click to view comic: 'No. This is It. The Worst Pun Ever.']

Corrupt Cop Couplets
-------------------------

I took five days to write these couplets.
My wife gave birth to new quintuplets.

I asked her who the father was.
He said that he was with the fuzz.

"Fuck the po-lice," I had said.
All she did was nod her head.

I went down to the local station.
He was smelling a carnation.

I said, "Hey bub, you did my wife!"
He stabbed me with a silver knife.

I said "Loretta," (that's my spouse)
"Don't let this prick in the house."

I like your style--even if the meter doesn't always work.

My favorite line(s):

"In the back a mallard
bit the bread that he had buttered."

[hr]

As an aside (you probably dislike "aside," too), how do you feel about poems that rhyme physically rather than phonetically?

I thought that's where you were going with, "Banal."

Banal II

The Duke thought it banal
to walk in the canal;
his knowledge was quite carnal,
but hardly ever anal.

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Chicken Feather Bed Bugs Bunny Hop Sing Out Side Street Walker Texas Ranger Cookie Dough Boy Wonder Years

Hmm... nah, I like phonetics too much to rhyme banal (bun-al) with anal (a-nall). I just did "Banal" because I hated the line that I started with, "Ghosts of the past remember my soul." It was so pretentious that I ended up going etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

In any case, I've been having an e.e. cummings explosion lately, so here's my newest:

Belgium

running through th
e twigs in the house.
i am here in
(ger(man)knee)

This is officially the best poem I've ever written.

Fucking to Freeform Jazz

I know you want to date me,
since you put on such pizazz;
but I honestly can't do it,
cause you fuck to freeform jazz.
Ever seen a porno
where they screw to Henry Grimes?
Actually, I know you have,
you watched it several times.
It sets a tone that makes you feel
you're doin' a schizophrenic.
And believe me, I've done 3 of those
it isn't photogenic.
And so I say goodbye to you
with all your psycho bassists.
But hey, I guess it's better than
having sex with seven racists.