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Supple Cow · 02-13-2004, 03:24 PM

I've always considered myself a bad poet, forever doomed to writing stuff that belongs on Hallmark cards, but last year I took a stab at turning my uncontrollable rhyming habit into something a little more thought-provoking. I shared my poem (below), inspired by the crime of Andrea Yates, with my literary society and many of them were shocked that it could come from "such a sweet girl." *shrugs* It doesn't exactly reflect my beliefs, but I figured it would be worth the mental exercise to write it.

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Doing The Right Thing

By [Supple Cow]

“No more children,” the doctor said,
But we ignored him, back in bed.

Then came you, my baby girl,
Another precious human pearl.

Our family was hard to beat.
Perfection truly is a feat.

We showed that doctor he was wrong,
And yet, our pride did not last long.

“No time for playing at the park.
We must be back inside by dark.”

You, children, heard this every day.
There had to be another way.

I told myself that we were blessed,
That we were better than the rest.

But we weren’t doing what we ought.
I watched as God and Satan fought.

In the end, the Devil won.
It meant the end of all the fun.

Around the house, I’d sit and mope.
At last, one final spark of hope!

I promise you I’ll make it right.
Your sanctuary is in sight.

You’re number one; you’re number two.
Into the tub go each of you.

You’re number three and number four.
Where did he go? There’s just one more.

Please don’t look at me that way.
Don’t run from me—you’ll go astray.

That’s it, dear, I’ve taught you well.
Now you won’t have to go to Hell.

Your hands are cold, your face is blue.
You’re ready for your life anew.

Now let’s go, John, and let’s go, Paul,
And let’s go, Luke and Mary small.

I’ll tuck you in all nice and neat
And straighten out the crisp white sheet.

Now just one prayer to bless you all,
And then I have to make a call.

Now I lay them down to sleep.
I pray the Lord their souls to keep,
And if my wish he does forsake,
I’ll know that my own soul’s at stake.

02-13-2004, 03:24 PM	#1 (permalink)
Supple Cow Americow, the Beautiful Location: Washington, D.C.	morbid poetry I've always considered myself a bad poet, forever doomed to writing stuff that belongs on Hallmark cards, but last year I took a stab at turning my uncontrollable rhyming habit into something a little more thought-provoking. I shared my poem (below), inspired by the crime of Andrea Yates, with my literary society and many of them were shocked that it could come from "such a sweet girl." shrugs It doesn't exactly reflect my beliefs, but I figured it would be worth the mental exercise to write it. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Doing The Right Thing By [Supple Cow] “No more children,” the doctor said, But we ignored him, back in bed. Then came you, my baby girl, Another precious human pearl. Our family was hard to beat. Perfection truly is a feat. We showed that doctor he was wrong, And yet, our pride did not last long. “No time for playing at the park. We must be back inside by dark.” You, children, heard this every day. There had to be another way. I told myself that we were blessed, That we were better than the rest. But we weren’t doing what we ought. I watched as God and Satan fought. In the end, the Devil won. It meant the end of all the fun. Around the house, I’d sit and mope. At last, one final spark of hope! I promise you I’ll make it right. Your sanctuary is in sight. You’re number one; you’re number two. Into the tub go each of you. You’re number three and number four. Where did he go? There’s just one more. Please don’t look at me that way. Don’t run from me—you’ll go astray. That’s it, dear, I’ve taught you well. Now you won’t have to go to Hell. Your hands are cold, your face is blue. You’re ready for your life anew. Now let’s go, John, and let’s go, Paul, And let’s go, Luke and Mary small. I’ll tuck you in all nice and neat And straighten out the crisp white sheet. Now just one prayer to bless you all, And then I have to make a call. Now I lay them down to sleep. I pray the Lord their souls to keep, And if my wish he does forsake, I’ll know that my own soul’s at stake. __________________ "I've missed more than 9000 shots in my career. I've lost almost 300 games. Twenty-six times I've been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed." (Michael Jordan)