Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.110
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Tom: Well, do tell? But like I said, I’m not a stranger. I’m a businessman; and more than that. Why, I could be just like a brother to you if you’d let me. Besides, I studied music once, too, but that was before I got hit on the head with a spanner wrench and had to give it up to go to night school and become a businessman. But I do remember something about sharps and flats.
 
Bumblebee: My cousin, Cabernet, says that the sharp notes are like shoes with stiletto heels, that flat notes are like flip flop sandals, and that the notes on the diatonic scale are like sensible shoes. She makes further comparison of the various musical keys to different shades of silk stockings. Her analogy continues with the investigation of the nuances and tonalities of all manner of ladies unmentionables. But I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.

Tom: Hmm. Would I be able to meet this cousin of yours? I’m a musician, too; I play the six-pack violin. By a strange coincidence, I happen to also be very interested in women’s shoes and stockings. It’s a hobby of mine. I have collected a passably representative assemblage of lingerie féminine, and I’m always looking out for fellow enthusiasts with whom to beg comparison of my ensemble. Modeling parties are not out of the question. Do you think your cousin would be interested?

Bumblebee: Umm, I don’t think so. I’m not allowed to talk to strangers. Besides, my cousin, Cabernet, is in Baton Rouge studying to become a yoga teacher. But I’ll let her know about you. Do you have a business card I could send her?

Tom: A business card? Sure. I’ll give you my business card. One doesn’t go to Rome for a smorgasbord and a sauna, or to the French Quarter for holy water and absolution. There’s a profit to be gained here through lascivious intent, calculated seduction, and puerile ministrations, or my name isn’t Thomas Beauregard Sickley. 

Bumblebee: Big words do not impress me, sir.

Tom: Well then, let me tell you a little story. It was back in the time when I was a senior at Van Vradenburch Academy. I was ordering lunch in the cafeteria. I said to the server, “I’ll have the potlatch cracker barrel smorgasbord variety platter special with artisanal dressing, the Chesapeake crab cake on a whole grain burger bun brushed with freshly clarified Assam butter, and a generous helping of organic sweet potato fritters doused in apple cider vinegar. For dessert, I’ll have a firm ripe banana on a bed of sweet young coconut meat swimming in Cherry Heering.” The server told me, “You look like you be dressing for the salad lady, child.”
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required