. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Crazy Night in the Mos Eisley Cantina

This one was written to be recited aloud, rather than read, in a SLAM poetry style, but I'm archiving it here for the hell of it because it's fun. No explanation of the subject matter needed. If you get it, great. If not, it wasn't for you...

Another fight,
Another night,
That’s what you’re thinking,
Not this time,
Not tonight,
I saw one of those laser swords – made of light,
Blue-white and buzzing bright,
Imagine my delight!

Some punk farmhand at the bar,

Underage no doubt,
Actin’ out,
Swinging his big dick like he knows
     what the Mos Eisley Cantina is all about,
This little bean sprout called out some
     crushed-faced killa with a pig snout,
This is fuckin’ Tatooine,
We’ve got enough problems with droughts,
     Imperial scouts and krayt dragons crawling about,
Now in comes this kid fresh off a T-16 Skyhopper route,
Bustin’ up in our bar in clean white linens
     like a shiny trout that no one on this planet knows anything about!

This nasty pig bitch claims he’s some kind of criminal drafter,

Pulls out a blaster,
Points it at the kid aiming to do some bad damage,
Starts off with a little laughter,
But gets madder and madder,
Bout to pull the trigger but then out of nowhere
     comes some mystical grandmaster,
Turns out the old man’s faster,
Cranks up that light sword and causes disaster,
The pig pretty much empties his bladder when this old fart
     cuts through his arm in a curving sweep of his pretty blue dagger,
What’s up now, pig,
What’s the matter,
Where’s all that hard chatter,
Better pick up your dismembered limb and wipe up that blood spatter.

I promise that’s how it went down,

That’s what I saw,
The story of this old man in a drab gown handling
    his shit is all over town,
Even had a big Wookie behind him,
Tall, dark and brown,
Growling like he’s always got some reason to frown,
They picked the kid up off the ground lucky to still
     have the blonde hair on his crown,
Handled their business and headed off to
     where ever they were bound,
Some gunslinger even threw a credit to the overweight bartender
     and said something profound,
But I missed that part,
The band started back up and their fluty music drowned out the sound.


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