Monday News
I really dig being the news guy for Monday Club (my friends and I convene at the pub every Monday to celebrate life).
Ryan’s comandeering of my notebook influenced me to write this weeks as a stream of conciousness poem:
It always begins with Mike the chicken,
Bein fed with milk an corn feed an survivin for
a mistaken 18 months.
He always knows the true names of the men that work:
Rafa is Dom
The other one is Michaels
(who had a haircut)
An so Moore rolls on.
An the man with th bottle n book looks over
th tops of his spectacles
An doesnt make a sound,
An only eats in silence
An stays til 11
an its noticed that its gettin late
As he leaves shrieks of javid
In his wake that
are heard from outside.
Th Mole Race begins
T track down a ticket for
The weekend’s big show
Egged on by those
who are plannin an plotting
for th same thing.
But the jurys sill out on that one:
Its waitin for th small ads.
Bruce pays a visit
An it’s nice t see him
(T see him nice)
as it’s nice to see Beca and her fringe
but she’s purple as well as brown
and her brain ain’t workin
So spackman has a drink on her dad
As rumours spread about his own.
“Maybe its the l-shape
That makes all the mix-ups”
So Monday club becomes distinctly more square
An Falex has his good nature preyed on
An picked at
An luke shows no remorse
As he plops another penny in th drink.
There were so many chiefs
But no one to judge th accusations
Nor th mistakes of Ben as he repeats them again
And again
And again
We get a visit from Fruit Too Much and Lewis Smooth
And they stay a while
But dont get the 21’s
and so it goes slow
an he listens to the names
an then he leaves
without a word.
And Moore Rolls all th way t the end
As Ryan takes th squash from th basket
And just puts it into another.
And Moore Rolls on.
