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Not being a poet, I had planned on giving the Classic Movie Limerick Contest, hosted by Brandie at True Classics, a miss but, well, the best laid plans of mice and men, as they say ...
The rules are simple: write a limerick about a movie made before 1982. If possible, make it stylishly bawdy.
Um, okay.
Said the blonde to the man on the Limited,
"Making love before lunch is prohibited!"
So he ordered the trout,
Then whipped his own out.
Full-bellied, she's quite uninhibited!
Hey, what do you want for nothin'—rrrrubber biscuit?
"That's Typing" Tuesday, in which I share unpolished, unpublished writings from my vast store of unpolished, unpublished writings. On Tuesdays.
"Doggie in the yard"
see the little doggie
doggie in the yard
happy face
he runs pell-mell
bury bone
and waggy tail
and though I don't know
his name
and we haven't been
introduced
I can't help notice
he's cavalier
about the brown stuff
he's produced
produced upon my
fresh-mown lawn
produced and left
and now he's gone.
Next Tuesday: Bull Durham
The latest meme making its way around the blog-o-sphere are haiku reviews of favorite movies. A haiku, for those of you not versed in Japanese poetry, is a seventeen syllable poem juxtaposing two ideas, usually, though not always, broken into three lines of five, seven and five syllables. Done right, a haiku should put you in mind of wind chimes in a shady garden as a yellow jacket stings your knee.
Actually, "wind chimes in a shady garden as a yellow jacket stings your knee" is itself something of a haiku, now that I think about it. As is "we'll always have Van Tiffen and Legion Field—here's looking at you, kick" which my little brother wrote about the 1985 Auburn-Alabama game and the pain of losing. I'd say other than that sunburn I got at a Vanderbilt game once, it was the most painful sporting event I've ever attended..
Anyway, here is my own meager contribution, a haiku review of the Mythical Monkey itself:
one monkey typing
forty-five minutes—oh, lord,
another film blog
Well, whaddya want for nothing—Shakespeare?
Coming soon: My review of D.W. Griffith's Intolerance. In many more than seventeen syllables.
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