9 Responses to “Rub My Curdy Belly”

1. buzz Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 6:12 pm

   Clinton did something similar at his. I am convinced having a poet recite “good” poetry is a way to meet chicks.
   The hard part is not rolling your eyes at “curdy belly”.

   I suggest a black beret and snap your fingers rather than applauding at the end.

2. Terry Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 7:08 pm

   Clinton had a different poet for each inauguration. Both were Arkansans. I think Obama should do something similar for his inauguration.
   Here’s Hawai’i native poet Lois-Ann Yamanaka’s Boss of the Food:

   Before time, everytime my sista like be the boss
   of the food. We stay shopping in Mizuno Superette
   and my madda pull the Oreos off the shelf
   and my sista already saying, Mommy,
   can be the boss of the Oreos?

   The worse was when she was the boss
   of the sunflower seeds.
   She give me and my other sistas
   one seed at a time.
   We no could eat the meat.
   Us had to put um in one pile on one Kleenex.
   Then, when we wen’ take all the meat
   out of the shells and our lips stay all cho cho,
   she give us the seeds one at a time
   cause my sista, she the boss
   of the sunflower seeds.

   One time she was the boss
   of the Raisinettes.
   Us was riding in the back
   of my granpa’s Bronco down Kaunakakai Wharf.
   There she was, passing us one Raisinette at a time. My mouth was all watery
   ’cause I like eat um all one time, eh?
   So I wen’ tell her, Gimme that bag.
   And I wen’ grab um.
   She said, I’ng tell Mommy.
   And I said, Go you f—-n’ bird killa;
   tell Mommy.

   She wen’ let go the bag.
   And I wen’ start eating the Raisinetes all one time.
   But when I wen’ look at her,
   I felt kinda bad cause I wen’ call her bird killa.
   She was boss of the parakeet too, eh,
   and she suppose to cover the cage every night.
   But one time, she wen’ forget.
   When us wen’ wake up, the bugga was on its back,
   legs in the air all stiff.
   The bugga was cold.
   And I guess the thing that made me feel bad
   was I neva think calling her bird killa
   would make her feel so bad
   that she let go the bag Raisinettes.

   But I neva give her back the bag.
   I figga what the f–k.
   I ain’t going suffer eating one Raisinette at a time.
   Then beg her for one mo
   and I mean one mo
   f—-n’ candy.

3. Johnny Roosh Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 7:31 pm

   Here is some more “poetry”:

   I like big butts and I can not lie
   You other brothers can’t deny
   That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist
   And a round thing in your face

4. buzz Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 7:55 pm

   *snap* *snap*

5. Terry Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 8:52 pm

   Compare Alexander with Melville to see how far American poetry has fallen:

   John Marr and Other Sailors

   Since as in night’s deck-watch ye show,
   Why, lads, so silent here to me,
   Your watchmate of times long ago?
   Once, for all the darkling sea,
   You your voices raised how clearly,
   Striking in when tempest sung;
   Hoisting up the storm-sail cheerly,
   _Life is storm–let storm!_ you rung.
   Taking things as fated merely,
   Childlike though the world ye spanned;
   Nor holding unto life too dearly,
   Ye who held your lives in hand–
   Skimmers, who on oceans four
   Petrels were, and larks ashore.

   O, not from memory lightly flung,
   Forgot, like strains no more availing,
   The heart to music haughtier strung;
   Nay, frequent near me, never staleing,
   Whose good feeling kept ye young.
   Like tides that enter creek or stream,
   Ye come, ye visit me, or seem
   Swimming out from seas of faces,
   Alien myriads memory traces,
   To enfold me in a dream!

   I yearn as ye. But rafts that strain,
   Parted, shall they lock again?
   Twined we were, entwined, then riven,
   Ever to new embracements driven,
   Shifting gulf-weed of the main!
   And how if one here shift no more,
   Lodged by the flinging surge ashore?
   Nor less, as now, in eve’s decline,
   Your shadowy fellowship is mine.
   Ye float around me, form and feature:–
   Tattooings, ear-rings, love-locks curled;
   Barbarians of man’s simpler nature,
   Unworldly servers of the world.
   Yea, present all, and dear to me,
   Though shades, or scouring China’s sea.

   Whither, whither, merchant-sailors,
   Whitherward now in roaring gales?
   Competing still, ye huntsman-whalers,
   In leviathan’s wake what boat prevails?
   And man-of-war’s men, whereaway?
   If now no dinned drum beat to quarters
   On the wilds of midnight waters–
   Foemen looming through the spray;
   Do yet your gangway lanterns, streaming,
   Vainly strive to pierce below,
   When, tilted from the slant plank gleaming,
   A brother you see to darkness go?

   But, gunmates lashed in shotted canvas,
   If where long watch-below ye keep,
   Never the shrill _”All hands up hammocks!”_
   Breaks the spell that charms your sleep,
   And summoning trumps might vainly call,
   And booming guns implore–
   A beat, a heart-beat musters all,
   One heart-beat at heart-core.
   It musters. But to clasp, retain;
   To see you at the halyards main–
   To hear your chorus once again!

6. Master of None Says:
   December 20th, 2008 at 11:31 pm

   Keel da lan’lord
   Keel da lan’lord

7. Mr. Shirt Says:
   December 21st, 2008 at 12:47 am

   She sounds like a typical progressive leftist to me. I bet she found the gumption to apply for an NEA grant to cover the “expense” of writing that poem.

8. Mr. D Says:
   December 21st, 2008 at 11:51 am

   I suggest a black beret and snap your fingers rather than applauding at the end.

   Don’t forget the bongos. We need bongos.

   Perhaps we could stage a dramatic reading of Yossarian’s limericks some time. Or perhaps this selection from one of the greatest poetic groups around, the Dead Milkmen:

   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   I ran over my neighbors
   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   Now I’m in all the papers

   My folks bought me a bitchin’ Camaro
   With no insurance to match
   So if I happen to run you down
   Please don’t leave a scratch

   I ran over some old lady
   One night at the county fair
   And I didn’t get arrested
   Because my dad’s the mayor

   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   Donuts on your lawn
   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   Tony Orlando and Dawn

   When I drive past the kids
   They all spit and cuss
   Cause I’ve got a bitchin’ Camaro
   And they have to ride the bus

   So you’d better get out of my way
   When I come through your yard
   Cause I’ve got a bitchin’ Camaro
   And an Exxon credit card

   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   Hey man where ya headed?
   Bitchin’ Camaro, Bitchin’ Camaro!
   I’m drunk on unleaded!

9. shawnr Says:
   December 21st, 2008 at 12:17 pm

   In the immortal words of Lazarus Long, “Beware of poet’s who reads their verses in public, they may have other bad habits as well.”

   Which just reminded me of his advice about AC & PB, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. It wastes your time and annoys the pig.”

   And to JR, “Alway keep beer in a cool dark place.”

   RAH, was a wise man.

   Merry Christmas

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