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by Con
Rated: E · Poetry · Comedy · #2207327
An invitation and a tragicomedy
Sanctum Sanctorum

Come down past the garden, Maud,
Beyond yon clump of birch,
Where stands a humble edifice,
More sacred than a church.

I make a solemn pilgrimage,
Once or twice a day,
To contemplate the Universe,
And problems to allay.

‘Tis only on the morrow,
That we two shall wed,
And you should view this sanctum,
Ere evening prayers are said.

You’ll note the architect,
Saw two sate side by side,
A place for me and one for thee,
When you’re my blushing bride.

The ambiance is perfect
For thoughtful conversation,
Of shoes and ships and sealing wax
And our sublime vocation.

Here we would consider,
The economic factors,
The price of oats and winter coats,
And Massey Harris tractors.

So there we’d sit and I admit,
‘Tis cold here in December
Each moment passed ‘midst winter’s blast
Is something you’ll remember.

Requiem for Grampa Sigurdson

Grandpa died a tragic death,
It really was too bad,
It happened in the dark of night,
And made us feel so sad.

No one was to blame,
No one was at fault,
His death occurred because,
Porcupines love salt.

Salt for them is hard to find,
For they don’t have salt shakers,
But where there is the slightest bit,
They are greedy takers.

Wooden-handled tools,
Held with a sweaty hand,
Axes, hoes and pitchforks,
Are in high demand.

So are wooden toilet seats,
In outdoor privies old,
Infused with salt from sweaty bums,
As much as they can hold.

Every night at bedtime,
It was Grandpa’s style,
To stroll down to the outhouse,
To meditate a while.

That night a massive porcupine,
To claim a major find,
Lay stretched across the salty seat,
With nothing on his mind.

But to gnaw his fill,
Of this tasty nighttime snack,
When Gramp’s bare bottom squished him down,
The porcupine fought back.

He bit and slashed and flailed his tail,
Amongst Grandpa’s private places,
Then out the door forevermore,
To find wide-open spaces.

They lived a dozen miles from town,
Had neither car nor truck,
There was no phone to call for help,
It was such rotten luck.

Grandma got the pliers,
And a quart of rum,
Poured some for him and some for her,
Now Einar, here I come!

Quilt removal took till morn,
With Grampa loudly swearing,
With every yank, his spirits sank,
Till he was long past caring.

Grampa lingered near a week,
Just stricken to the heart,
T’wouldn’t be so bad, he said,
But it hurts me when I fart.

I have these two requests, my dear,
And, Helga, please don’t frown.
Bake lefsa for my funeral,
And bury me face down.

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