I was intending to read this at Connectionz Open Mike last night, but the event was moved to this coming Friday, so I guess it won’t work next Friday—or what the hay: maybe I will read it. Anyway, at some point the podcast will appear.
Do any of you speak Latin? Pig Latin?
Well, here goes; the poem is called
(–that’s (pig) Latin, for those of you born after the fifties–
anyway, here’s the poem:)
Tomorrow’s my irthdaybay.
I’ll be twenty-two point two-two
actually, for the math students in the crowd
that’s twenty-two point two-two repeated
That’s a real Latin phrase;
it means “forever”:
I like that part.
At my age, I like any part.
Those of you in the Viagra generation
will be pleased to know that
even at the exalted age of twenty-two
point two-two ad infinitum
we still like looking–
at any part we can get into focus.
In my case something larger than a cantaloupe
but smaller than Ontario.
My wife doesn’t like cantaloupe
especially what I’m implying about cantaloupes
and she especially hates that I’m mentioning her
right now. Is she glaring at me? Is she cringing?
I can feel the Curse of the Cat People
burning into my forehead.
That’s one of the senses that develops
after you’ve been married for
oh, thirty years–that’s Fahrenheit years by the way
and right now, it’s accurate because
I can feel the below zero stare from here, Dear.
Anyway, appyhay irthdaybay otay emay.
Tomorrow, ad infinitum, to the stars!