For the last eighteen years, I've written a Seussian poem celebrating our respective birthdays. I thought this was a normal way to celebrate, but Google does not agree:
Here is my latest:
Me and the Seuss, we share birthday fun--
If the doc were alive, he'd be one-twenty-one!
I'm not quite that old, but D. Boon would be proud--
there's no shame in saying it, so I'll say it loud,
fuck all those youngsters, growing old is no crime--
I'll revel in my age: double nickels on the dime.
Here is my latest:
If the doc were alive, he'd be one-twenty-one!
I'm not quite that old, but D. Boon would be proud--
there's no shame in saying it, so I'll say it loud,
fuck all those youngsters, growing old is no crime--
I'll revel in my age: double nickels on the dime.
For the first time ever, I've collected all the rest of the poems in one place-- and it's a pretty weird ride. Starts as a creative lark, but then I start exploring the nature of time and mortality, and then, for no good reason-- unless perhaps it's just getting old and mellowing out, I become inspirational and optimistic and start looking on the bright side of life.
So here they are, in chronological order:
Today is the day-- I've turned thirty-eight!--
The Doctor and I, we share the same date--
If Seuss were alive, he'd be one-o-two,
And if I were like Horton, then I'd hear a Who!
(Actually, Seuss would be one-o-four,
but that is a fact that I choose to ignore).
I share my birthday with a Cat named Seuss--
who, like all writers, liked his juice
as I like mine, fermented and sweet . . .
especially for a birthday treat--
but this year, instead of getting all pissed
my present is a juicy sebaceous cyst.
This one is very Emily Dickinson:
A Birthday Slant Rhyme
Today is our day:
me, Seuss, and Bon Jovi,
and I am the youngest,
Though I just turned forty.
Today is my birthday, me and the Seuss
I'm now forty-one, and still feeling loose,
but if life is a train, I'm near the caboose.
Today is the day, I turn forty-two--
the meaning of life, but according to who?
and if you know, I'm willing to bet
that you have read all the books in the set--
you know that the dolphins had such simple wishes,
they just wanted to say thanks for the fishes.
If Seuss were alive, he'd be very old,
one hundred and nine years I am told;
I doubt very much that I'll make it that far --
but I have a tattoo of a fish in a car!
The doctor and I are both a year older,
but his celebration is darker and colder.
Seuss was a man who created a cat,
with a number of tricks, and a fancy top hat--
I am the man who created a blog,
but I don't have a cat . . . I prefer my black dog.
Dave and Dr. Seuss Pontificate on the Meaning of Shared Birthdays (in a Universe That May be Experiencing the Nietzschean Eternal Return)
Me and the Seuss, we share the same date:
coincidence . . . or an act of fate?
I tend to lean towards the stochastic
but perhaps our world is finitely elastic,
so we run the same path after every big bang
and the Doctor and I share our groove thang.
The Doctor and me-- we share the same date--
Inevitably, we'll share the same fate.
As alive as he was, all the places he went,
In the end, he found out that his life was but lent.
I AM alive, I have places to go--
But since I'm now fifty, I'll just move kind of slow.
There is a lesson to be learned from the demise of the Seuss:
the best case with the reaper is an uneasy truce.
The good doctor and I share the same date of birth--
and for twenty-one years, we roamed planet earth--
our time intersected, we shared the same space,
we breathed the same air, we ran the same race--
but 31 years ago, the good doctor expired
while I continued living, he went and expired--
and I hope in good time, we'll meet once again,
and drink us some beers and eat us some ham.
The day has arrived, the day of my birth--
The day Seuss and I debuted on the Earth;
And while the good doctor has passed from this place,
I'm still hanging on still running the race,
still working the job, still writing the posts,
still chasing the lob, still taunting the ghosts--
I've been knocking around for fifty-three years,
my knees are a wreck, I can barely quaff beers--
but while I can walk, stand and not fall,
I'll remain in the game and play pickleball.
It's here once again, it comes without fail--
for rich and for poor, the next coffin nail . . .
for Bryce Dallas Howard, for the Wu's Method Man,
for me and Bon Jovi-- the occasional is grand:
We are still alive! our lifetime rolls on!
and one year from now we may well be gone . . .
But perhaps these trite rhymes will outlive my frame--
The Good Doctor is dead, yet you still know his name . . .
and the folks he invented, that lived in his books:
Yertle the Turtle, Thing One and Thing Two,
The Grinch and the Lorax and, of course, Cindy Lou Who--
you know all those souls, though they never lived--
you might know them much better than your very own kids!
So here's to creation--to birthdays and rhymes--
to writing it down, before there's no time.
So here they are, in chronological order:
Today is the day-- I've turned thirty-eight!--
The Doctor and I, we share the same date--
If Seuss were alive, he'd be one-o-two,
And if I were like Horton, then I'd hear a Who!
(Actually, Seuss would be one-o-four,
but that is a fact that I choose to ignore).
I share my birthday with a Cat named Seuss--
who, like all writers, liked his juice
as I like mine, fermented and sweet . . .
especially for a birthday treat--
but this year, instead of getting all pissed
my present is a juicy sebaceous cyst.
This one is very Emily Dickinson:
Today is our day:
me, Seuss, and Bon Jovi,
and I am the youngest,
Though I just turned forty.
Today is my birthday, me and the Seuss
I'm now forty-one, and still feeling loose,
but if life is a train, I'm near the caboose.
Today is the day, I turn forty-two--
the meaning of life, but according to who?
and if you know, I'm willing to bet
that you have read all the books in the set--
you know that the dolphins had such simple wishes,
they just wanted to say thanks for the fishes.
If Seuss were alive, he'd be very old,
one hundred and nine years I am told;
I doubt very much that I'll make it that far --
but I have a tattoo of a fish in a car!
At this point, the poems become more existential and grim:
It's here once again, it's hard to ignore,
he's one-hundred and ten, and I'm forty-four.
My beard grows white, my skin grows loose,
the looming specter tightens his noose,
and if you deny him, he'll cook your goose . . .
let me remind you, it happened to Seuss.
It's here once again, it's hard to ignore,
he's one-hundred and ten, and I'm forty-four.
My beard grows white, my skin grows loose,
the looming specter tightens his noose,
and if you deny him, he'll cook your goose . . .
let me remind you, it happened to Seuss.
The doctor and I are both a year older,
but his celebration is darker and colder.
Seuss was a man who created a cat,
with a number of tricks, and a fancy top hat--
I am the man who created a blog,
but I don't have a cat . . . I prefer my black dog.
Dave and Dr. Seuss Pontificate on the Meaning of Shared Birthdays (in a Universe That May be Experiencing the Nietzschean Eternal Return)
Me and the Seuss, we share the same date:
coincidence . . . or an act of fate?
I tend to lean towards the stochastic
but perhaps our world is finitely elastic,
so we run the same path after every big bang
and the Doctor and I share our groove thang.
The Doctor and me-- we share the same date--
Inevitably, we'll share the same fate.
As alive as he was, all the places he went,
In the end, he found out that his life was but lent.
I AM alive, I have places to go--
But since I'm now fifty, I'll just move kind of slow.
There is a lesson to be learned from the demise of the Seuss:
the best case with the reaper is an uneasy truce.
This one is quite historic, on both ends:
I share my birthday with a cat named Seuss
a man I respect for his creative juice
his rhymes were tight, his mind was loose--
and while the good Doctor liked to imbibe
Prohibition didn't feel his vibe--
I also like the occasional shot,
but on this birthday, alcohol is a NOT--
the shot I partake will go in my arm--
a present from Pfizer that might make me feel warm,
Seuss survived a pandemic: the Spanish flu--
Soon enough I might say: I survived too!
I share my birthday with a cat named Seuss
a man I respect for his creative juice
his rhymes were tight, his mind was loose--
and while the good Doctor liked to imbibe
Prohibition didn't feel his vibe--
I also like the occasional shot,
but on this birthday, alcohol is a NOT--
the shot I partake will go in my arm--
a present from Pfizer that might make me feel warm,
Seuss survived a pandemic: the Spanish flu--
Soon enough I might say: I survived too!
Then, for no good reason, I shake off this philosophical funk . . .
The good doctor and I share the same date of birth--
and for twenty-one years, we roamed planet earth--
our time intersected, we shared the same space,
we breathed the same air, we ran the same race--
but 31 years ago, the good doctor expired
while I continued living, he went and expired--
and I hope in good time, we'll meet once again,
and drink us some beers and eat us some ham.
The day has arrived, the day of my birth--
The day Seuss and I debuted on the Earth;
And while the good doctor has passed from this place,
I'm still hanging on still running the race,
still working the job, still writing the posts,
still chasing the lob, still taunting the ghosts--
I've been knocking around for fifty-three years,
my knees are a wreck, I can barely quaff beers--
but while I can walk, stand and not fall,
I'll remain in the game and play pickleball.
It's here once again, it comes without fail--
for rich and for poor, the next coffin nail . . .
for Bryce Dallas Howard, for the Wu's Method Man,
for me and Bon Jovi-- the occasional is grand:
We are still alive! our lifetime rolls on!
and one year from now we may well be gone . . .
But perhaps these trite rhymes will outlive my frame--
The Good Doctor is dead, yet you still know his name . . .
and the folks he invented, that lived in his books:
Yertle the Turtle, Thing One and Thing Two,
The Grinch and the Lorax and, of course, Cindy Lou Who--
you know all those souls, though they never lived--
you might know them much better than your very own kids!
So here's to creation--to birthdays and rhymes--
to writing it down, before there's no time.
Posts
11 comments:
does anapestic mean "font blind"?
also, i celebrate you and your entire catalogue, dave.
thanks! i had to do some copy/pasting . . . high tech stuff.
Yesterday- was a day. Parades all morning. Tons of beads collected. No boobs shown by me. Then on a balcony in the quarter throwing beads. Many boobs were shown. I didn’t ask for that though. People had to do push ups for my beads. Of course we hit Bourbon street at some point. I also got very, very drunk. One more day in Nola and then my body needs a food and booze break.
You are such a prude. I can’t believe you didn’t show your boobs.
Not everybody has assets for display like Marlin‘s Melons.
A very happy belated birthday to my old friend, freshman hall next-door neighbor, fellow Nicks star, founding fisherman, and partner in rhyme Dave.
Like you were ever one to discriminate based on boob size…
I remain jealous of Mark. I went to Mardi Gras in 1996 and 1997. Drunken spectacles both times. What a city.
It's well known Marls is more into showing off his feet.
Just the big toe.
I had forgotten that Dr. Seuss's death (a watershed moment in Random Idiots' tenure) happened on the same day that the trifecta of landmark albums came out. Wow.
Post a Comment