Fish Sticks and Fiddle Farts
Just a short note. I must give credit where credit it due. I am not the sole conspirator for this fantastic work of art. It was written by the folks at Stupidity Central (a mailing list.) It started as my post of a single line, then with the help of most everyone else on the list at the time, this beautiful poem became the result. Do enjoy!
Fish sticks and Fiddle farts.
Fry the happy ham.
Eat the Alliecat.
On a large plate of Spam.
Plastic forks and pickles.
Fat red ants stealing nickels.
In the fridge the kool-aid trickles.
Powdered wigs of evil pink.
And UFO’s that blink, blink, blink.
Prim, proper, fat, old mink.
And rotten fish meat that does stink.
Green men and lots and lots of cocoa.
They’re GREY not green you silly loco!
According to who? I hope not you!
No, according to Mulder; he says so too!
But Scully says no -- she’s such a skeptic.
This poem’s getting worse, we need some antiseptic.
Well who’s fault is that? Certainly not mine!
Oh, it’s all right, we’re doing fine.
But some of you need to start toeing the line.
Water faucets that drip, drip, plop.
Call Mario, he’ll make it stop.
Expensive vases you need to drop.
Orange, grape, and cherry pop.
Spilled - but fortunately I have a mop.
Hope it’s a Shammy to clean up THAT glop.
Right, left, bottom, top.
Big draft horses that clippity-clop.
Sadder Budweiser, they pull their wagon.
Here’s Joe Friday, and his case on the P.A.G.A.N.’s.
Goat legs, chicken legs, dance that dance.
Save the virgin from the people in the goat-leg pants.
That’s not real goat -- it’s Naugahyde!
Are you sayin’ that those P.A.G.A.N.’s lied?
No, I’m just sayin’ their brains were fried.
Pretty pills in lots of colors.
Some are brighter, some are duller(s).
Crosses, sunshine, and pointy sticks.
All used to torment little Nicks.
And still he looks for a permanent fix.
From protein shakes in a Vita-Mix.
Fly, fly as high as you can.
Watch out for that tree, you flying man!
Crash! Smash! There goes the glass!
Go back to school; you didn’t pass.
Calendars, crackers, and empty boxes.
Make a trap for clumsy foxes.
Tug the string; there goes the lid.
Now that fox is completely hid.
Truths and realities we now bend.
So this has got to be “The End.”
Back to Year 1999 Poems.
