Ack, it's the Holidays soon, so Bill tried ta write somethin appropriate for the Holiday season, somethin cheery and upliftin. Tfpt. Cat Poem Time!!!
Bill had himself a beer, and pondered for a while. The holidays were here, and as always, they were vile. Bill never much liked fruitcake, he'd rather feast on brownies; canes give him a toothache, and nutmeg makes him frowny. Santa Clauses ringin bells, and all the other crap; they only smile when little elves are sittin on their lap. When Bill was young, this season was a time that he enjoyed; now it's just a reason to have yourself destroyed.
Today Bill lost his 'lectric bill, now certainly he's screwed; he flagellates his flaggin' will, now what's he gonna do? His memory's a memory, his mind has gone ta pot; he's grinded on an emery, his thought's a tangled knot. His consciousness: a stagnant pool, without no flow and ebb; he finishes his plate o gruel, then falls back in his web.
Ack. Tfpt. Phbt. Tfpt.
A sense of unreality came settlin over Bill; disgusted with banality, he wants ta be fulfilled. This happens periodically when he runs outta bud; he sits there idiotically, just drownin in the mud. What can help him to depart this weedless lACK of focus? His brain is like an apple tart among a pack o locusts.
Bill's room is like the Antarctic, with icy winds a blowin; his mind is fried and anarchic, so where the Hell's Bob Owen? Where Good Stuff is indigenous, THAT's where Bill belongs; he'll smoke til he's vertiginous, and sing some good Cat Songs. Bill dreams of a Utopia, where fine weed is abundant; but with advanced myopia, are all such dreams redundant?
Bill dreamt that he was caught, and placed inside a box; a victim of some nasty scheme, he couldn't pick the lock. Next thing he knew, they yanked him out, relieved him of his skin; then they stuffed him like a trout (this cat was much too thin). Finally, they served him, his flesh was on the table; the condiments unnerved him: "mild" was on their label.
Bill smoked some hits o' cannabis and had himself a swig; it cured him of his animus but made his hunger big. He 'membered when he usta have a hearty meal each night; now he'd eat a farty eel and call it a delight. Bill don't have the money to prepare like Julia Child; his oatmeal's kinda runny and his cornbread's slightly vile. Ack!
What should Bill do with his life, should he return ta school? Maybe he should get a wife, ta help him mop his drool. He'd like ta deal full-time in drugs, but he just hates ta share 'em; his neighborhood is fulla thugs who'd probly tryta snare 'im. He wants ta breed exotic herbs, but it costs cash ta grow 'em; his verbal skills are so superb, he oughtta just write poems! Ack, tfpt, Phbbbbbbbbbbbbbbt!
Ack. Bill appreciates the little things in life. Cat Poem Time!!
Today Bill lost his keys, and was stuck outside for hours; with shivers in his knees, he just sat there countin flowers. His roommates weren't around, and he craved a cigarette; moistened from the ground, he had no parapet. Whiskers to the sky, like lotsa little spears, a rain fell in his eye, 'twas the first he'd seen in years. Tfpt.
Bill likes his coffee extra-strong, cause it's the mildest drug; he leaves it in the pot too long, then fills his favorite mug. He uses maybe half a pound ta make a single pot; at this rate he's surely bound ta have his innards rot. He drinks it til he's wakened and can finally proceed; he drinks until he's quakin but he wishes it were speed. Tfpt.
Scroungin for an eat, Bill became disturbed; somethin in the street was gettin him purr-turbed. Was Bill bein trailed by the funny lookin guy, actin like he worked for the FBI? Were they about ta get him, for somethin that he sold? He figured they'd forget him; the incident was old. Pickin up his pace, Bill hung a right; he made it to his place, then he killed the light. His energy was spent, he called it a night; the horrible events had destroyed his appetite.
Cat Poem Time!!!Ack.
Bill don't go for kibble, he'd rather eat a rat; Cal-Can makes him dribble, and 9-lives makes him spat. Bill don't go for oat-bran, he craves a plate o veal; but offer him some Afghan, and he'll blaze away with zeal. Bill is into booze, though most cats like Purina; he likes a taste o ouzo with a chase of smooth retsina.
Tfpt. Ack. Phbt. Ack. Tfpt. Ack, ack, ACK!!! Cat Poem Time!!!
You probly weren't aware that Bill is into art; fleas infest his hair, but passion's in his heart. An orange Magic Marker enables him to say it; just like Charlie Parker, he can easily convey it.He works the best when he is crazed, like from another cent'ry; his finest work depicts a maze -- without a place of entry.
Layin down ta sleep, Bill prayed for lotsa drugs. His skin began ta creep, cause his room is fulla bugs. When Bill turns off the light, they're hidden in the black; lookin for a bite, they crawl out from the crack. Why don't the landlord bill 'em; they been around forever? Why don't they tryta kill em? They're much too fuckin clever. Ack, tfpt. phhbbbbbbbbbt. Ack.
Clingin to his mattress like a lustful body louse, Bill trembled in his cat-dress from the climate in his house. He chattered up a racket that defied his neighbor's wills; he oughtta sew a jacket outta all his unpaid bills. (ack) His head began ta pound, like it was fulla heavy metal; the roaches laughed and clowned, snug inside their little shtetl.
Abruptly Bill was wakened, with a spasm and a twitch; his scrawny body quakened cause he felt an ugly itch. Plowin through his hair: the biggest roach he'd ever seen; caught while unprepared, Bill nearly lost his spleen. He flung the monster in the air then crushed it with a book; he mumbled out some mangled prayer then had himself a look. Bill the cat was mortified, like he'd committed libel; guilty of insecticide, he'd used his roommate's Bible.
Nothin is discernable from Bill the Cat's perspective; reality's unlearnable, it's mom is too protective. Bill's windows are all coated with a heavy layer o dust; his screens are all corroded with a brownish-yellow rust. Too hazy is his mirror to provide you a reflection; it isn't any clearer after lengthy introspection.
Bill stayed in bed today, he'd had an accident; he feet were made o clay, he brain, of bad cement. He b'longs in some museum, or under tons o ash; perhaps a mausoleum -- with a good supply o hash. He never wants ta face the sun, or anything outside; his recipe for fun is 3 parts formaldehyde.
Bill was not surprised when his heart began ta fail; it coulda been surmised from the spasm in his tail. A cockroach in his veins, the clot began ta creep, inducin so much pain that Bill almost had ta weep. Would the girl-cat he was datin hafta settle for some plumber?? Bill's heart was syncopatin like a pretty good jazz drummer.
Ostensible tranquility is just a cruel illusion; Bill has the ability to know when there's collusion. Cameras on the corners of at least a dozen streets, lookin like a mourner, Bill tries ta be discrete. He ambles to the store, and picks up a can of Folger's; he knows his every chore is surveyed by unseen soldiers.
Bill's life felt like a big mistake, no way could he amend it; his mind was like a dried-up lake: the time had come to end it. Bill thought he'd like ta slash his wrists, so he pulled out a blade; then the sound o poundin fists fell on his barricade. A voice was cryin, "That's a sin, we'd miss you, you're the greatest!!!" It was Sgt. Mortensen, who just saved Rob Pilatus.
The gluttinous black vermin were concerned about their eatin'; their plans were undetermined so the roaches held a meetin'. They'd ploughed across Bill's kitchen, and left the Cat with zilch; their work was pretty bitchin', they were masters of the filch. But now that Bill was broke, they lacked a food supply; the prospects made them choke; on whom would they rely? The situation, they agreed, was gettin much too hairy; eventually, it was decreed: they'd send an emissary.
To Be Continued. Ack.
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