The Ballad of Arthur James
For Arthur, a thank you (of sorts).
Arturius Jameson, the sock puppet
Elusive, reclusive old fellow
Writes poems for folks
That he likes the most
With a tone best described here as “Mellow”
No entries for Arty; no words to explore.
Click him – you'll see now't on his page
But let me recount
The stunning amount
Of trouble he caused with a rampage.
“Uh-huh” I implore, with a quick knowing nod,
“He was once all manic and wild.
“No poems for he,
“Just violence, you see,
As for poetry? Nothing so mild.”
Arturious Jameson, the Rogue of the East
The Bounder of Furious Intent
The Seducer of Babes;
The Killer of Knaves
One day to Clear Spring he went.
Into Starbucks he strode, all glistening-eyed,
Demanding a quick-hit of latte.
“And don't make me wait,
“I cannot be late,”
“If I am don't expect to be paid.”
The barista shook - right down to his shoes,
When he heard Arturius' stern tone
In a most fearful dream
Then did work his machine
'Til – disaster! The milk was all gone!
“But- but sir!”the boy stuttered, revealing the jug:
As empty as he was of courage,
“I'm sorry to tell ya,
“No, do stay calm, fella!
“A latte I just cannot manage!”
“NO LATTE?!” roared Jameson, as folks cleared their seats,
Arthur slapping the lad in a rage
“THIS I CANNOT ABIDE!
THERE IS NO MILK INSIDE
THIS WHOLE CAFE?! WHAT A HEATHEN OUTRAGE!”
Arthur rose in his ire and hurdled the wood
That stood stoutly twixt him and the boy
Then examined the jug,
And then the boy's mug
Before fixing his mind on a ploy.
“GET OUT ALL YOU PEOPLE! MOVE ON NOW I SAY!”
Shouted Art to the folks in a hurry
Then he gathered up cups,
Filled with half-finished sups,
Combining them into a great slurry.
There was latte and mocha, expresso and iced
Bits flavoured with syrups and cream.
Arthur swirled them around
Then drank them all down
While the boy watched, too frightened to scream.
All coffee'd up now was Arturius J,
And moving at super-fast speed.
As he moved through the caff,
With maniacal laugh,
He opens his pants – and he peed!
While Art's cup overflowed, the boy found his sense
And dialed for help on his phone
“Please come – he's gone mad!
“And hurry! Oh, the cad...
He's a monster! And I'm here alone!”
Just as Art finished up his magnificent stream
(Which over-filled almost nine cups)
The police did arrive
And surrounded our guy,
Then with guns out, they snapped on the cuffs.
Months later, our Arthur, declared all fixed up
Was released to the world once again,
But an oath he had taken,
To never partake in
The drinking of coffee – forfend!
So, ashamed of his past, Artie floats around here
Writing poems for people who please him.
But don't mention coffee
For he'll just get stuffy,
And will pee in your cup in you tease him.
By Lou (Who never claimed to be a poet.)