Tuesday, April 19, 2005

!Rachel 8 9 10 11!

April Eighth—A Haiku!

Gynocologist
Thy name is Popeye: cleanse me
With your spinach douche.

April Ninth

I can’t wait ‘til we
Get married!

We’ll get a bungalow
Down at the Shore
With our other
Married friends

You’ll play football
But you’re too competitive
You’ll throw your back
Out and wind up on
The table of some country
Chiropracter
Who doesn’t take our insurance
I’ll laugh at you because
You’re not
As young as you used
To be, and you’ll start to hate me.
You’ll start playing golf.

At night,
You boys wil go into town
For a beer.
You’ll flirt with a teenaged townie
But she was the one who rang you up
When you bought Pampers at the
Kwik-Mart on Thursday…
…Shit.

Don’t worry.
I forgive you!
I’m pregnant!

Bet you can’t
Wait til we get married
And have group sex—I mean
Awesome summers
With all our
Married friends
Down at the shore.

April Tenth—A Cinquain!

Crack Whore
Wild-eyed, haggard
Shooting, smoking, dancing
Despite the absence of music
Crack Whore.

April Eleventh—Advice No. 5

This is for all you housewives out there
Maybe you bake a cake for your
Loved one
For their birthday or something
And say the cake explodes in the oven
A good thing to do is
Start a fire in the kitchen!
(Remember to put it out!)
Make sure the
evidence of the cake is
Still there,
You’re a hero! You
Saved the day and
Had a horrible fright, poor thing.
Your grateful spouse will happily
Clean up the mess
It may be their birthday, but you could
Have been killed.
They’ll probably take you
Out for dinner and even pay!
Even though it’s their birthday!

Shit.
If fucking Sylvia Plath had had me
Around,
She’d probably be alive today.

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