poems2.html

Poems of ~ THE POTATO OF TERROR! ~ 2

KENTUCKY CHUCKIE'S RUBBER DUCKIE
© The Potato of Terror
Written 24/9/98, In the Bath

I knew a wrist-dragging drool-cowboy
Chuckie was his name
a sap and a crow decoy
his parents were to blame.
when he drove out in his truckie,
he towed his duck behind -
a yellow rubber duckie
that was silent, lame and blind.

His truck spoke 'sad' and 'failure'
he looked a perfect tool
small duck on enormous trailer:
- not widely deemed as cool.
He'd drive out of Kentucky
for hours, then back again
in blue jeans stained and mucky
through sun, hail, snow and rain.

One day a bitch asked Chuckie
"What is it that you DO?"
whereon he spoke up, plucky,
"A whole lot more than you;
I see the sun at morning
in veils of amber mist,
with early dew adorning
the grass, all summer-kissed,

I watch the moon, soft-sliding
through gossamer at night,
river mosquitoes, gliding
through filtered, dappled light,
I protect my duck called Jilly
so yellow, quiet and small.
I like to show my willy
suddenly, to one and all."

She quietly edged away
leaving Chuckie quiet and sad
and Chuckie, to this day
is still completely mad,
living in Kentucky
his neighbours to annoy
and still his rubber duckie
is his biggest pride and joy.

ANSWER TO BETWYS OLIVE OIL'S
"FINAL SWANSONG OF THE SPUDMAIDEN:"
THE SEQUEL:

The Terrible Ghastly Beastliness of
"THE POTATO CADAVER UNDEAD REVIVAL" (sonnet)
© The Potato of Terror, April 24th 2002

They dug him up with a great pointed spade,
Awoke him from his rest of ninety years,
And O what a great bellowing he made,
And shook his fists, and twitched his pointed ears!
For there was much skullduggery afoot,
And horrid ghastly beastliness besides,
The Spud Maiden's Swan Song had taken root
Deep in his soul and tuberous insides.
Her tragic voice had roused the pixie throngs
Provoked the wrath of tuber overlords,
And small brown furry things in rubber thongs
Sprang to their feet and brandished tiny swords.
King Edwards, Caras! Hide your youngest sons!
A vast undead potato this way comes!

When passions are aflame,
one can waffle or orate.
Love is never cut and dried
or offered on a plate.

If you were my Cara
and I your dear Pomme Frite,
would we make a hash of things
or would love taste more sweet?

If you were my Duchess
and I your true King Ed,
we might put down roots together,
with the warm earth for our bed.

But you found out I was mad
and burned the midnight oil
writing sad rhyme with no reason
- now your love's gone off the boil.

*sigh.*

GOING OUT IN MY GUMBOOTS
©The Potato of Terror, 21/9/98
When I stay in, in my slippers,
couched deep within my armchair
and it's so wet outside - only flippers
could carry me to anywhere;
no food but salad without dressing
(half of which fell on the floor)
- why then all is dull and depressing
and everything seems such a chore.
But when I go out in my gumboots
and tight-fitting PVC threads,
frolicking back to my rock roots,
screaming "EVERYONE STAND BY YOUR BEDS!"
- why then all is furry and friendly
and everything funks like a bean;
I'm so happy my knees go all trembly
and just for a night, I am Queen.

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