A Tale of Woe

A Tale of Woe

(With apologies to Mr. Poe)

Once upon a Wednesday eve, the kids with my friend I did leave,

So that I might run a solo errand unencumbered, I confess—

            Upon returning I did find my child wrapped on their couch, supine,

Pale and sleepy, there she lied. I was only gone an hour. Maybe less.

“She’s just tired,” I implored, “she got six hours sleep, no more. Six hours or less—”

            That’s what it had to be. Unless…

Oh, but I am telling you, it was only School Day Two!

Surely this can’t be a clue that some germ has been a-crawling on their desks.

            As I tried to take our leave, she gagged and then began to heave.

            She clapped her hand upon her mouth and stared at me in great distress—

Fast we sent her to the bathroom, everyone in such distress—

            Quoth I: “Shit. I’m so sorry for the mess.”

And so we found ourselves Day Two in frightening territ’ry anew—

You’ll not believe it true, but in her life she’s puked but twice. Puked but twice or even less!

            At the tender age of nine, she had to hear for the first time,

            Why one might need a bucket and a toilet all at once. Bless!

Dare I say, this must be some kind of record in the district that we now possess.

            Quoth I: Day Three is fucked, I guess.

Though my days of manic efficiency have all too soon been lost to me,

I cannot help but be relieved that I can fin’lly reveal our years of vomit-less success.

            I never spoke of it ‘till now for everybody knows of how

            A person can be punished by the universe lest they repress—

A mother must be careful what she utters and must not transgress—

            (Then say a prayer and spit three times but I’m not superstitious.)

This story ends, but ‘ere I go and leave you with this tale of woe,

I feel I need to tell you something else, so please indulge while I digress.

            Though two poems I have now written, poetry I must be quittin’—

            I’m getting tired of rhyming and I hope you’ll acquiesce

To reading other stuff I write (usually late at night). Truth is that I am just a satirist at best.

            Quoth I: I’ve peaked. Now do I get out of this?