Once upon a midnight dreary,
while I pondered, weak and weary,
over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten threads
(wondering if Reeder had taken his meds),
I heard a vocal field recording,
and chiming guitars, playfully scorning.
Ah, my delightful indie-folk!
Setting down my lime-garnished coke,
I was compelled to pick up my feet, and dance,
and around the room I did gaily prance.
But then down the stairs my brother did loom,
his face a vision of pain and gloom.
“What the fuck are you doing?”, my brother enquired,
I simply continued dancing - in the music I was fully mired.
He started towards me and threatened to knock out my tooth,
I leapt in surprise, and my head collided with the roof.
“BUGGERSHITPISSFUCK,” I yelped, pitching hither and yon.
“Serves you right,” my brother smirked, and: “Moron.”
As he departed, and I lay fetal on the floor,
my poor skull aching by the second more,
I decided to make my way to the chair,
for the relief, in board form, contained there.
However, as I reached for the chair, as if to beg,
my head intercepted its aluminum leg.
“MOTHERFUCKINGCHRISTSONOFABITCH,” I uttered,
stood up slowly, and went up the stairs as I muttered.
“Mother? Do my pupils look alright?”, I asked of my tired parent,
and to her my pain quickly became apparent.
She blinked, confused, her eyelids silent percussion,
I wandered off, saying “Nevermind,” wondering if I had a concussion.
Later that night, as I had again returned to the SDMB,
I ungracefully decided that I really needed to pee.
So I dismounted from my office chair,
but stepped on a tack lying in the dust there.
“BOLLOCKSHITFUCKCHRIST,” I exclaimed,
holding my foot, now slightly maimed.
I headed back up the stairs, my poor heel bleeding,
hopefully avoiding more pain, or so I was pleading.
I managed all the stairs, with a triumphant laugh,
and at that, headed off for a bath.
But then, as I lay in the warm water, completely rigid,
I turned the wrong knob, turning the water frigid.
“ARGHFUCKINGCHRISTSHIT,” I exclaimed,
leaping from the water in which I was detained,
only to slip and fall on the floor, injuring my ass -
“Fulkuhgoljuhohf.” My muttering becoming a dark morass.
I quickly ascertained, for once using my head,
that avoiding danger was futile, and I headed off to bed.
The next morning, at the breakfast table.
as my mother asked what I wanted on my bagel,
I could only hold my heel, grimacing like a lich,
muttering softly: “Jesus… Son of a bitch…”
“What? What did you just say?”, my mother cried.
“I’ll have some cheese, and hold the fish.” I replied.
