 |
| Either the Great Eye of Sauron, or a hobbit butt after he's had his first Taco Bell. |
How does one explain three months absent from here
not writing one damn thing since before Halloween
it's not because I've become jaded, bored, or cavalier
it's that I'm only just back from the bizarre and unforeseen
have no doubts that the wild tale you're about to hear
can be verified thru police records, new scars and X-rays
it's teeming with villains and heroes and gallons of beer
across national borders and time zones -and back in 90 days
It all started so quietly with no hint of trouble in sight
I was home by myself settling in to rub one out
when an urgent knock at the door ruined my night
I tried pretending I wasn't home but they started to shout
Twas my old friend Randolf just back from the coast
and with a whole troupe of I guess his new homies
Still, I didn't really want to play the good host
until I saw the cold keg and pizzas with pepperonis
So over many a pint and hot slice
they told me a sad sad story indeed
they were jockeys from Canada with a gambling vice
and in a poker game with a lonely mountie, lost every steed
their poor treasured horses were now kept by him
near a factory spitting pollution thick as fog
they had sworn to try though their chances were thin
to regain their treasure from the lonely mountie and smog
they asked me to join them and make their group complete
so stupidly I went with Randolf and his troupe of littles
singing and wobbling merrily through the street
with only our last pints of beer and a few leftover vittles
I fell in a puddle, cut my knee, and moaned like a wimp
then felt like a wuss for wanting to slink away like a rat
but that woulda made me a wet bloody puss with a limp
and nobody wants to be that
I could but nobly hobble thereafter
and that was too slow for these guys
one slinked into a clinic slick as a grafter
and slipped out with a gurney to my surprise
thus came the name of this tale
and the first of our crimes on this journey
but worry fades after pitchers of ale
and down hills we all rode drunk on my gurney
but we couldn't go on this way like a bunch of retards
clearly a new plan was in order
so I led them down to the train yards
and dearly snuck on a train bound for the border
the freight car was out of an old Hollywood classic
complete with a band of mean hobos ready to jump us
so it was ninety pound jockeys versus men from jurassic
I could see it would take 'em all of ten seconds to thump us
was it Falstaff who said the better part of valor is discretion?
plus I had a bum knee for which I was on medication
so I decided to hang back for the coming aggression
while the jockeys fought like bears -stuffed for decoration
in ten seconds they were out cold and piled in a sad little stack
and the hoboes took a break to slake their thirst
they drank wine from a cooler they'd set up in the back
while they argued over which one to corn-hole first
I then saw my chance to redeem my poor showing
and while their backs were turned I started to creep
into the cooler went all my meds without their knowing
and one round of drinks later they all went to sleep
slipping off the train in some Canadian town
we were finally there but felt as if we'd hit the skids
me dirty and limping, and them crying over their beat-down
people gave money to the homeless man and his wretched kids
we took that cash to a bar for a round and a snack
serendipity followed in the form of a beer delivery truck
the driver left it running and wheeled his load far to the back
we all looked at each other and said 'What the fuck?'
luckily jockeys are small
for the front seat was cramped
cases of red bull was part of the haul
and soon we were amped
as it turns out it's not hard to prove
that stolen trucks are an unwise choice of transportation
the local police were less than pleased with our move
and chased us down forcing a quick debarkation
fleeing on foot while drunk and injured is no fun
but I hobble/ran quicker that my short-legged hell-raisers
thankfully Canadian police won't use a gun
but their not shy about using their tasers
getting hit wasn't the worst of it by half
nor were the bruises from awkward falls
I got away but it was hard not to laugh
seeing old Randolf take two hits to the balls
another jockey and I made it to the docks and hid quick
we rested in the shadows behind an old barge
he said he knew where to hide because he's psychic
I said that made him a small medium at large
we had to work but lay low while our pals were in jail
-he as a garden gnome whom they paid in beets
-I as a gigolo making a rich lady wail
for which I got paid all the pie I could eat
the rest sat weeks in the pokey before their trial began
on account they had no bail money to tender
lucky for them I had hatched me a plan
and went in posing as their public defender
I said 'Your honor, though their crimes are bountiful
surely deserving conviction and a hard life in chains
the freakishly small can't be held accountable
on account of their equally small brains'
their size being undeniable
the judge relented with soft heart
the 'stupidity' defense is reliable
if the defendants look the part
finally we made our way up to the county
and after some 'hair of the dog'
it was time to confront the lonely mountie
and get the treasured steeds away from the smog
It was all of us against one so I felt in fine fettle
a few cases later and we were all half in the can
I lead my jockey troupe ready to test our mettle
beer muscles will do that for a man
through the woods I led them like a modern day Moses
lurching in circles up the hill taking nearly a day
the factory smog made rotten eggs smell like roses
and the jockeys and I puked most of the way
at his door I said "Let's kick it in, and on him descend!"
They said "Whoa man, we'd better go slower.
He's not just a mountie, my friend.
He's a marine with a flame-thrower!"
"Now you say it?!" I hissed
they said "I guess we should've told you."
I said "Screw you! I'm pissed!
I should've let those hoboes corn-hole you!"
being as drunk as we were
we were not as quiet as we thought
what happened next is a bit of a blur
but I will try to relate what havoc was wrought
the front door flew open and there towered the brute
not just mountie or marine with flame thrower in hand
he was a wacked-out wild-eyed meth-head to boot
and I thought to myself "this was poorly planned."
it was clear he meant to bake them
I myself bolted with speed unsurpassed
the jockeys ran as quick as their legs could take them
which is to say my friends; not very fast
he shot fire like a dragon of lore
or better yet, an ancient dragon king
but I thought "Maybe we're not done-for,
he's so high, he probably can't hit a thing!"
apparently there's a flame-thrower marksman school
at which his kill record must have been heinous
for he managed to nail each little fool
right in his little fool anus
with flames and smoke trailing after
they ran about shrieking like bitches
he began rolling in laughter
as they shat their little britches
they jumped in his pool to put out the flames
and pleaded "Stop! You win! It's not right!"
but he just laughed, called them names
and bounced rocks off their heads with delight
I couldn't tell for a man of his brawn
if it was too much for his heart or his head
but after all this and the binge he'd been on
his eyes crossed with an "Erg!" and he fell over dead
so in the end the jockeys got back every horse
they swore off gambling; their lesson's learnt
but they couldn't ride 'em just yet of course
not with asses so horribly burnt
though they couldn't pay me in cash I'm still in the pink
I deserve something for all that wouldn't you say?
a slightly used flame-thrower's worth more than you'd think
if you put it up for bidding on ebay
now that this saga is finally complete
I'm sure you'll excuse my being away
feel free to de-rivet yourself from your seat
as I've only one last thing to say
Now that it's over I have a small confession to make
about this epic tale and three months of my year
these forty-three stanzas of story are fake
I've been gone because I was jaded, bored, and yes -cavalier
