Spellbook VIII

Spellbook VIII

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Play midi: Everything I Do*

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Created 11/2/98

Updated 03/23/07

Wizard's note: This poem was written after repeated assaults on the sleep of the dead at all hours of the day and night by the local youth driving around in small trucks whose suspensions were all but destroyed to make them "better", and whose stereos out-cost and outweigh the vehicles themselves by at least a factor of 3. This is usually followed closely by the typical, innocent youthful banter to which we've become so accustomed; sixteen unharmonic choruses of :

lasting for about 15 minutes. The affectations exhibited with all the hand gestures, palm downward and simultaneously toward the sternum add immensely to the shows. During this time, absolutely NOTHING resembling ACTUAL communication takes place between the parties involved. They all part happily, however, luxuriating in their density. It appears that the sage old guy that coined the phrase "Youth is wasted on the young" got to be called sage from that particular saying. I'm fully aware that ALL youth does not fit into the above categories. It's just that I don't hear the rest of the kids because they're off somewhere studying how to be the bosses of the ones in the trucks.

There's not much left these days, it seems,
Of how things used to be,
When life and air were far more fair
Than now, I'll guarantee.

It makes one sick to see it so,
One looks the other way.
Well, turn around and see the mess
A.C.L.U. has made.

Kids' pants are down around their knees,
Their underwear on high;
And I wish they'd turn the volume down
Before my hearing dies.

In little trucks they drive around,
Just three inches from the ground
That look like little kiddie-cars.
I guess in fact, that's what they are.

Which brings me to the "music",
The "songs" they rave about.
They call it rap, I call it crap
That's too loud to block out.

And ain't it fun to see the size
To which their pants legs did arise?
It used to be to see a clown
Meant the circus was in town.

On sandy beaches in the sun,
With temperatures of one-oh-one
I really, really need to ask it:
Do you NEED that heavy jacket?

What passes for a head, it seems,
Is more a head-cheese sandwich
Judging from their disregard
For any proper language.

I think my head will just explode,
And I will be the bomber
If just once more I must endure,
"Supdog, yo! Yo mama!"

Now's the time to thank the ones
Who've fostered attitudes
That take the place of due respect
With being downright rude.

Those "loving, doting parents",
That only seem to yawn
While inflicting on the public
Their moronic little spawn.

"Our spawn have rights," their parents scream,
"To act the perfect ass!"
We've rights as well, their spawn doth smell,
And lacks the grades to pass.

It's not our job to raise these slobs,
To somehow force to function,
That piece of tripe you've given birth
But not a hint of gumption.

It's fine and good to teach a child
To hear his own sweet song.
But better still to teach him how
In life to get along.

My, my, Benjie, they went through ALL of the poetry. Yes, Benjie, I suppose they are gluttons for punishment... What's that? Oh... then send them to the recipe section... You think my Potions are enough to... One of these days, Benjie, I'm going to find a recipe for 'bat gumbo'...