by Don Two
A beach umbrella finds himself in an undesirable location.
|L B Umbrella once lived in Bahama;
but he was taken to Fort Lauderdale.
(He had no say in his new destination;
staying below decks as schooner set sail.)
As a beach umbrella, L B liked sunning;
but now L B was assigned to the dark.
His was a stark corner down in a basement,
not very far from Municipal Park.
Empty he felt in his umbrella longing;
there was not much save a washtub and tools.
Stiff did he lean against dank, grayish concrete;
all he could think was, A sunny beach rules.
A Ball Peen hammer said hello to L B,
trying his best to make him feel at ease.
When Ball Peen punned he had worked by the pound,
L B, in agony, caterwauled, Please!
(Constricted was L B as umbrellas are;
they are so folded and tied ‘round the waist.
When fully expanded, he welcomed all wit,
yet in this basement he felt sour-faced.)
‘Cross the bare concrete, a vise on a workbench,
tried to console L B with metal might.
Hang in there, umbrella, L B, Ol buddy;
I try to stay loose although I am tight.
L B tried very hard not to sink lower;
all of his folds longing Bahama fun.
There in the must of some forsaken basement,
L B lamented, I do miss the sun.
During the threat of an oncoming rainstorm,
someone grabbed L B and took him away.
And though unheard by ears of any human,
L B Umbrella declared, I’m okay.
Writer’s Cramp Winner