This Is What Happens When You Write Bad Poetry And Print Your Home Address On The Title Page Of Your Self Published Book

This post has been rated PG-13 for intense sequences of violence, peril and scary images.

Sometimes things get too much. There is too much to do, too much to organize, too much of things not working how I envisioned them to work in my head.  And, let's face it. That get's frustrating. And, while running can help cool the ball of aggravation simmering in my belly, sometimes, I need more. Because I've turned into Fluttershy and have made Pinky Pie and Rarity cry. Figuratively speaking. Unless you think I've nicknamed my kids Pinky Pie and Rarity, which, then, I bow to your mad Jigsaw Jones skillz. And, apparently, I'm not as clever as I thought I was.

So, the days when I find myself sprinting through the house from the computer (and it's evil piles of email) to the coffee pot while all the caffeine I've already drunk courses through my veins, taking 2 or 3 laps around the neurons in my brain and exploding out the sweat glands in my armpits like a green Mitsubishi Eclipse with too much NOS from the first Fast and Furious movie, I like to disengage from the world.

And hunt down people on the Internets.

With nefarious purposes in my mind.

Like a modern day Agatha Christie.

But with less follow through on the actual writing a murder mystery part.

My newest mark?

Benjamin F. Brown.

Yeah. This guy.

See, he's a poet. And each night, after a chapter from one of the books from the Anne of Green Gables series, I read a poem to my girls. I've gone through all our Shel Silverstein books, Edward Lear, TS Elliot, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson.... But, we bogged down with Walt Whitman. So, I pulled this slender tome off my shelves:

I knew I had purchased it from a used bookstore solely on the reason that it has an inscription on the inside flap that says, "To Bea J. Belknap from Jesse G. Pambrum, Christmas 1917". There's a romance there people, that I wanted to fantasize about. Did Bea and Jesse get married? Did Jesse go off to fight in WWI and die suffocating from mustard gas in the trenches like so many others? Did Bea and Jesse both succumb to influenza on the same day, hundreds of miles apart? Did they hold hands, and troth their love to one another under a canopy of stars on a cold still winter night?

So, I though, how bad could the poetry be? I mean, sure, I've never heard of Benjamin F. Brown, but, if he spoke to Jesse Pambrum's poetic soul, perhaps he would speak to Ellie and Katie's as well.

So I read them the poems.

Including this one:

Mary's Lamb Croquette

Listen while I tell the story,

Tell the sad and mournful story

Of the auto swiftly speeding, 

Every obstacle unheeding,

Chauffeur, wild in his endeavor,

Records of high speed to sever, 

Gave his horn an endless tooting,

By all other autos shooting,

Did not see some sheep come flocking,

And the outcome it was shocking. 

Mary from a distance spying,

Saw her lamb go upward flying,

Torn, dis-

dismembered, badly....

mangled....

(Note: Look people, here, I paused, looked at the faces of my beautiful innocent children, and, like the idiot I am, read on.)

Soon from the trolley wire it...

it dangled,

Bleating with a bleat...

incessant

Till in 

death 

it-

(Note, again: Here is where my children broke into tears. Tears, flowing from their shining eyes, gulps of grief emanating from their little chests, as they, no lie, curled themselves into a fetal position. That's when I stopped reading. Because I'm a compassionate mother.)

Now, there is more to this poem, that my children did not hear. You, dear reader, are not a child. You have seen things. You have seen life at it's best, and, let's be real here, if you laughed at even 50% of Ali Wong's Netflix special, "Hard Knock Wife" you've seen. Some. Things. Things that shouldn't be shared with your children until they are much older*.  But, for you, my audience who are able to buy tickets to R rated movies without permission from their parent, I will finish Benjamin F. Brown's poem. And then we will wreak our vengeance on him together!

Mary from a distance spying, 

Saw her lamb go upward flying,

Torn, dismembered, badly mangled,

Soon from trolley wire it dangled,

Bleating with a bleat incessant

Till in death it was quiescent.

Mary's heart was filled with sorrow,

Nevermore, today, tomorrow

Would it follow her to school,

Would it break the teacher's rule.

On this question Mary pondered,

In her inmost soul she pondered,

Should she give up auto riding?

This the answer then deciding, 

Nevermore should auto take her,

Chalmers, Ford or Studebaker,

Or in any kind whatever

Would she ride again, no, never;

For an auto killed her pet,

Made of it a lamb croquette.

OK, you see why we must vengeance all up on Benjamin's...rear...butt....(insert your own PG-13 word here). This can't stand. Who combines words like tooting and Studebaker with dismembered nursery rhyme lambs-AND MAKES MY CHILDREN CRY! No one who gets away with it, that's who!

Guys? I found Benjamin's house:

9 Kepler St. Providence, RI 02908

I'll meet you there with pitchforks and PG-13 stickers at dusk.



Note To Litigators, the FBI, CIA, NSA, TSA and All Other Law Enforcement Personnel:
I'm aware that Benjamin F. Brown is dead. I'm also aware that attacking people with pitchforks and papering their houses where they lived over 100 years ago with motion picture film rating stickers is completely out of line and I have no intention of doing so. Ever.

Well....

Unless....

Benjamin F. Brown comes back as a zombie.

Then all bets are off.




*Ali Wong Parental Warning: Or, if you're me, you may never share. Because Ali drops a lot of inappropriate words in her TV-MA special that my prudish soul wouldn't allow me to hear until I was, like, 40 years old. True story.

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