Hayseed Huck
04-22-2010, 02:33 PM
i'm too tired
sick and tired of love
i've had my fill of love
from below and above
tired
tired of being admired
tired of love uninspired
let's face it
i'm tired...
I'm on a joyless run.
There's nothing fun about this.
From Veruska's disappearence to Maddy's coming down
with whooping cough and yellow jaundice and Hanna's
always wanting to call Norway to talk to her mother.
And then there's Kerry Anne's concussion from a fall
out of my tulip tree.
And all the time these girls still look up to me as
their one and only person in the world. I'm getting
tired of it-- as I said above in that stupid poem.
I want to eye-gouge the next girl who wants to come
out to the pool where I'm lounging and give me her
tongue. if she does I'll keep her out of the kitchen
for a week. It hasn’t been the smoothest of summers
around here.
I'm in desperate need of a few weeks on a deck chair
in Vegas with a pool girl on hightop roller skates
coming by every 30 minutes with an offer to upgrade
my Long Island Iced Tea with some new Vodka con-
coction and in her hand a fancy bowl full of frozen
grapes-- ones she leaves on the table beside me,
right there
alongside my swimming trunks I had taken off for the
reason they had become too tight.
The biggest problem has been the mediocre love-of-
ferings I have given to these three girls-- lately, rela-
tive to what I am capable of.
What they expected.
It would be hard to argue with the overall success I had
in late fall when the three came to live here in my man-
sion on seventy acres outside ______________ (city
not named)
I agree mine hasn't been the triumphant exercise of man-
ly dominance it was supposed to be, but I feel like I have
to come out and defend my yawner of an effort last night
with Maddy-- her constant whooped-coughing notwith-
standing.
But the truth is-- I'm trying to fool everyone into think-
ing there aren’t problems. In April I couldn’t wait to get
in the hot tub with the three and jump on someone’s back,
then reaching around in front and playing our made-up
game of Who's Your Grabber?
Now I can’t wait to get in my chair, turn on TV and watch
Dancing With The Strars and looking bored every time
one of the dancer's breasts almost flop out of her constume.
Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe not, but whatever happens,
in the end, everyone is going to take a big sigh of relief
when the question is answered, pro or con. But the problem
is, the question gets changed--now the big question becomes
this-- is this really what I want to do?
I'm only going to get more and more into a bunker-down
mentality if I don't decide. I should be setting the world
on fire instead of putting it to sleep. Is this as good as
it’s going to get?
A younger, prettier man is only a door knock away-- or
maybe the girls, when they get their health back to normal,
will go for a walk to the lake behind my house and see some
naked, bronzed Adonis wading his way out of the water.
And then, I'm out, Zapped, Zeroed. Blanked. No matter I
housed these girls, fed them, entertained them and let them
borrow my car when they had doctor's appointments.
Roaring bulls of young studs are everywhere looking to
do big things. It’s not like I'm their last chance.
What if it all crumbles and I'm no longer among the elite?
How excited do you think the three girls will be after spend-
ing the afternoon at the lake and then having to come back
to the house-- and here I am balding, fatten belly, jowly,
paltry and gastric.
Yeah-- that's right, pal, gastric.
Do I undertake an intestional rebuilding effort?
Take it a step further if you will. If you’re one of the three
you'll have to understand the mood of the situation. I'll be
threatened and I'll act out. I'll make late night phone calls
to old friends and pretend to be happy.
I'll go in a make a ham sandwich, go out to the pool and
seine out some dead leaves. I'll remember the time when I
first tried to woo Shirley Sheen in the seventh grade.
Ingratitude. Unbelievable! I opened up my checkbook and
now these three girls make me feel small by giggling refer-
ences to the 'fun day' at the lake. I make a million bucks
a year on interest alone and they think that means I'm not
entitled to have a problem or two--
and may I point out the light housekeeping schedule I have
them on.
The timing will never be better. I'm deflated and limp and
the girls are stsrting to wear clothes when they walk around--
inside and out.
HH
sick and tired of love
i've had my fill of love
from below and above
tired
tired of being admired
tired of love uninspired
let's face it
i'm tired...
I'm on a joyless run.
There's nothing fun about this.
From Veruska's disappearence to Maddy's coming down
with whooping cough and yellow jaundice and Hanna's
always wanting to call Norway to talk to her mother.
And then there's Kerry Anne's concussion from a fall
out of my tulip tree.
And all the time these girls still look up to me as
their one and only person in the world. I'm getting
tired of it-- as I said above in that stupid poem.
I want to eye-gouge the next girl who wants to come
out to the pool where I'm lounging and give me her
tongue. if she does I'll keep her out of the kitchen
for a week. It hasn’t been the smoothest of summers
around here.
I'm in desperate need of a few weeks on a deck chair
in Vegas with a pool girl on hightop roller skates
coming by every 30 minutes with an offer to upgrade
my Long Island Iced Tea with some new Vodka con-
coction and in her hand a fancy bowl full of frozen
grapes-- ones she leaves on the table beside me,
right there
alongside my swimming trunks I had taken off for the
reason they had become too tight.
The biggest problem has been the mediocre love-of-
ferings I have given to these three girls-- lately, rela-
tive to what I am capable of.
What they expected.
It would be hard to argue with the overall success I had
in late fall when the three came to live here in my man-
sion on seventy acres outside ______________ (city
not named)
I agree mine hasn't been the triumphant exercise of man-
ly dominance it was supposed to be, but I feel like I have
to come out and defend my yawner of an effort last night
with Maddy-- her constant whooped-coughing notwith-
standing.
But the truth is-- I'm trying to fool everyone into think-
ing there aren’t problems. In April I couldn’t wait to get
in the hot tub with the three and jump on someone’s back,
then reaching around in front and playing our made-up
game of Who's Your Grabber?
Now I can’t wait to get in my chair, turn on TV and watch
Dancing With The Strars and looking bored every time
one of the dancer's breasts almost flop out of her constume.
Maybe I'll get over it. Maybe not, but whatever happens,
in the end, everyone is going to take a big sigh of relief
when the question is answered, pro or con. But the problem
is, the question gets changed--now the big question becomes
this-- is this really what I want to do?
I'm only going to get more and more into a bunker-down
mentality if I don't decide. I should be setting the world
on fire instead of putting it to sleep. Is this as good as
it’s going to get?
A younger, prettier man is only a door knock away-- or
maybe the girls, when they get their health back to normal,
will go for a walk to the lake behind my house and see some
naked, bronzed Adonis wading his way out of the water.
And then, I'm out, Zapped, Zeroed. Blanked. No matter I
housed these girls, fed them, entertained them and let them
borrow my car when they had doctor's appointments.
Roaring bulls of young studs are everywhere looking to
do big things. It’s not like I'm their last chance.
What if it all crumbles and I'm no longer among the elite?
How excited do you think the three girls will be after spend-
ing the afternoon at the lake and then having to come back
to the house-- and here I am balding, fatten belly, jowly,
paltry and gastric.
Yeah-- that's right, pal, gastric.
Do I undertake an intestional rebuilding effort?
Take it a step further if you will. If you’re one of the three
you'll have to understand the mood of the situation. I'll be
threatened and I'll act out. I'll make late night phone calls
to old friends and pretend to be happy.
I'll go in a make a ham sandwich, go out to the pool and
seine out some dead leaves. I'll remember the time when I
first tried to woo Shirley Sheen in the seventh grade.
Ingratitude. Unbelievable! I opened up my checkbook and
now these three girls make me feel small by giggling refer-
ences to the 'fun day' at the lake. I make a million bucks
a year on interest alone and they think that means I'm not
entitled to have a problem or two--
and may I point out the light housekeeping schedule I have
them on.
The timing will never be better. I'm deflated and limp and
the girls are stsrting to wear clothes when they walk around--
inside and out.
HH