Upon another midnight dreary,
As I sat with old Tim Leary,
Talking of the good old days of yore;
Talking, smoking, sniffing, eating ....
Suddenly there cane a bleating;
The Ouija board was rattling on the floor.
Tim looked up, anticipating,
"I think we're now hallucinating;
My consciousness has raised itself once more."
"Tim," I said, "That's not what's rising;
The Ouija's only realizing
That my aspidistra's just outside the door."
"What kind of potted plant is that?"
"Simply one that wants to chat,"
Said I, as I crawled toward the door.
"Somehow," he said, "That sounds fallacious."
"You'll see," said I, "The thing's loquacious,
And frankly, Tim, sometimes a downright bore."
I put the Ouija on the polygraph
and let in the leafy psychopath,
While Tim looked on, excited to the core.
"I've been to many far-out places,
Investigating kinky spaces,
But I've never seen a talking plant before."
The styli scratched the Ouija fiercely,
In a manner Ambrose Biercely,
And spelled "HI, FRIENDS, JUST CALL ME LENORE."
"Don't put on airs with us, you fraud,
You know your name is plain old Maud."
The plant demurred, and said "NOW DON'T GOT SORE;
"LENORE"S MY BRAND NEW NOM DE LEAF:
Tim cocked his ears in disbelief;
His flights of fancy now began to soar.
"Let me talk!" His pulse grew quicker; "
You don't get scenes like this with liquor;
Let we chew up just one capsule more."
"Tim,' I said, "You've had enough;
With Maud you just don't need that stuff.
She talks without a single cap or pour."
"YOU BET YOUR ASS I DO, OLD PUMPKIN ....
WHO'S THAT OTHER BUMPTIOUS BUMPKIN ....
SOMETHING FROM YOUR BOTTOM DRESSER DRAWER?"
"Maud," I said, "I'm seeing red;
Keep a civil petal in your head,
Or I'll be forced to spill your sappy gore.
"DON'T THREATEN ME, said Maid, "OL' RUM ....
THIS FREAK'S SPICED OUT ON LAUDANUM,
OR SOMETHING ELSE YOU NEED PRESCRIPTIONS FOR."
Tim plucked a blossom; Maudy glowered.
"HELP," she said, "I'VE BEEN DEFLOWERED!
WHAT DID YA WANNA GO AND DO THAT FOR?
LET ME TELL YOU THIS, TIM, DEARIE ....
YOU WITH BLOODSHOT EYES SO BLEARY ....
YOU'LL MARRY ME, OR, BY GOD, THIS MEANS WAR"
Tim raised his hands in supplication;
Searched his bag of medication,
Then fell back, disheveled, on the floor.
"Marry you I'd rather lam it To another, saner planet,
Than hitch up with a counterculture whore."
"THAT'S 'HORTICULTURE,' TIMMY,
SWEETIE, BUT I HEAR YOUR SAD ENTREATY,
AND A GROWN MAN CRYING'S SOMETHING I DEPLORE.
I'D RATHER WED CANNABIS SATIVA
THAN BE CALLED AN L S DIVA,
SINGING SONGS WHEN I DON'T KNOW THE SCORE."
"You mean you'll spare me female screeches,
Andd not file suit for promise breaches,
claiming I said 'Maudie, je t'adore'?"
"I PROMISE, TIM," said Maud, quite teary.
"Cross your bleeding heart?" asked Leary.
Quoth the aspidistra: "NEVERMORE."
Humorist and paparazzo Bob Holmes could be seen at all manner of Mensa pool parties snapping photos of the denizens of the water.
We have collected the essential data you need to easily include this page on your blog. Just click and copy!close