Monday, March 26, 2007

Edgar Allen Poe is rolling in his grave

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Once upon a midnight dreary
while I smoked the chronic bleary
and did another line of coke from off my parquet floor
whilst I grooved to Jay-Z rapping, suddenly there came a tapping, a tapping at my bedroom door.
Tis some Greek bilionaire, I muttered, tapping at my bedroom door
only this and nothing more.

Tho I really don't remember, it could have been around December
when Stavros went to get more drugs and head out to the liquor store
"Hurry up" is what I thought, while I wiped away some snot
I wanted to see what he had brought, brought me from the liquor store
"It better not be the cheap stuff," is what I swore.
"or else he'll go back for some more."

But suddenly I was uncertain
that it was Stavros behind the curtain
maybe it was the papparazzi like so many times before
yanking on some slutty clothes, I primped and preened and prepared to pose
and my vagina to expose
for the photographers whom I do adore
presently my buzz grew stronger, I couldn't wait a moment longer
and here I opened wide the door
darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering
long I stood there wondering, fearing
was I just too high from all the crack that I had smoked galore?
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token
and the only words there spoken were the whispered words, "you whore!"
The hissing, electrical whisper, "whore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning
I grabbed the joint that I'd left burning
but soon again I heard the murmering, somewhat louder than before.
Surely this must be the paps, out to get unflattering snaps, of my loose vagina flaps
that the tabloids love to call for
or else just the wind and nothing more
this I was what I had to explore.

Toking once more, I flung the shutter
and with many a luminous flutter
emerged the glowing, stately goddess of my television's yore
she did not smile, or beam, or chat
and in person didn't look so fat
but glared and sat, she just sat, sat beside my bedroom door
This woman whom the world doth adore
glared and sat and nothing more.

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Then this goddess did beguiling
turn my poufy pout to smiling
by the grave and stern decorum of the disapproving frown she wore.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and suddenly I felt like peeing
'cause this like, celestial being was sitting by my bedroom door.
"Oprah, what could it be that brings you to my chamber door?"
Quoth the Oprah, "Quit being a whore!"

Startled by the words she'd spoken
I grabbed my pipe and started tokin
Wishing Oprah would go away, she was being like, a total bore.
Still she sat amid my clutter, nothing further did she utter
till I heard her start to mutter, "Heed my advice, do not ignore. The way you act, I do deplore. All I want to do is roar,
Quit being such a drugged out whore!"

There I sat engaged in smoking
the yummy weed, my lungs were choking
and I thought she must be joking
about my being thought a whore
Said I, "What can you be thinking? Surely you must be the one drinking
everyone loves me for my singing, no one thinks that I'm a whore!"
And I rubbed more Valtrex on my sore.

And then it seemed the air grew denser,
Oprah's eyes did flash with angry censure
and she grabbed my little, tiny bong and smashed it on the hardwood floor.
"Foul wench," she cried, "I do decree
to the girls at my Leadership Academy
you will end up with the HIV
if you snort up coke from off the floor!
No one should be famous for being a whore!
Clean up your behaviour I do implore!"

Soon her words were realling smarting,
"You're bumming me out," I shrieked, upstarting.
"Go away, go peddle The Secret, to the soccer moms you blather for.
I wish that you had never spoken, and had left my bong unbroken
now how am I going to be smokin the weed that Stavros went to score?
Oprah, I can't take it anymore, you get your fatass out this door!"
Quoth the Oprah, "Nevermore."

And the Oprah, never flitting, still is sitting,
still is sitiing,
by the shards of broken bong that lie beside my bedroom door.
And I wonder, was I dreaming?
My reputation did she try redeeming?
Maybe that's why she is now screaming,
while Stavros fucks me on the floor.
Stop doing coke and billionaires? Nevermore!

17 comments: said...

Pru - all I can do is shake my head in awe, girl, this is beyond great! Please please send a link to this to D-Listed, you are great. said...

p.s., I would send the link myself but I can't access D-Listed from stupid work. Somebody else send it to Michael K. if Pru won't do it! He would adore this poem.

Scottsdale Girl said...


M-M-M-Mishy said...

Edith: I fully expect school children of future generations to be studying and analyzing your poetry. It's timeless!

T-girl said...

This seriously is AWESOME! No joke, you really should send this in. I can only imagine how much time you put into it but it is REALLY good. I am all a blathering here, it is really good!

Hugs- T

PS BTW- can not tell you how much I agree with the assesment of a coked out whore being an icon. As much as I dislike Oprah... I would rather have her as a posterchild then the Paris's that are taking over!

Diane said...

Simply fucking amazing

morbid misanthrope said...

Very well done. Perhaps next an explanation of anna Nicole Smith's autopsy written to Poe's "Ulalume"?

Prunella's cousin Edith the poetess said...

Ulalume? Yikes! Annabel Lee would be much easier. And lots of great stuff rhymes with "Anna Nicole." Like toilet bowl, damage control, mouth hole, sugar bowl, skoal.....

joy said...

Genius, I love it!!!

ffleur said...

You are so fantastic Pru!

*standing ovation*


GetFlix said...

I agree with all the earlier commenters!! I would only add you should slap a © on it. Really.

Fantastic social commentary.

LA said...

Seriously, Pru. There must be some Genius Grant you can apply for. Your creativity never fails to astound me.

Maddie said...

I think a little puff of dust just wafted out of William Shakespear's grave.

Frannie Farmer said...

Wow. Edith, have you considered becoming a tutor for young impressionalble girls? Serioulsy, I know a pre-teen who has some serious crack-whore potentional that you could just KNOW RIGHT OUT OF HER.

Prunella's cousin Edith the poetess said...

Aaaacccckkkk! I have been struck down with some kind of stomach flu and have been barfing and feeling lousy since posting this. I'm convinced that Oprah has used The Secret to zap me. I picture her sitting in a plush chamber, speaking in a Jabba-the-hut voice. "It's not nice to make fun of the Oprah. Muyhahahahaha."

Mrs Dalloway said...

Bartess- Please fell better-we need you back said...

We gotta do something about Oprah. She's gotta be stopped!