Desciples of Mad Magazine
(in loving memory of A. E. Neuman 1)
When me and my brother
were desciplies of
Mad Magazine,the world was filled with
things we could laugh at:
Glue-on nails. Elvis.
Sisters in love. Yodelling.
Our flat tops gave us an infinite
plane of cool atop our heads:
an aircraft carrier cruising
down main street.
A vast prairie.
We'd spin our heads and tear
off swaths of the horizon.
We'd run and tilt,
and soar thru the world on our
laughing infinite sail heads.
When Dad was away,
Grampa would come by
to tighten things down.
Or oil them.
Once he came to cut the Burdock.
Gotta keep cutting it back, boys.
On our way to the tool shed,
we ran ahead, and
locked the hammer in the vice's jaws,
crammed chicken bones into its claw,
then ballanced the anvil on all of that.
Not grasping our art,
Boys, Boys, what is this NONsense?
We fell to the cement floor,
laughing into our sleeves.
He grabbed the old scythe.
So we followed the reaper
to the weed bed in back,
tacking behind him.
(There was quite a headwind.)
We watched him swish that thing for
half an hour. Finally, Water, please.
Tittering severely, we brought him
a nice jug of luke warm water.
As he guzzled for minutes, his eyes
screwed wildly in circles, hunting for
cool satisfaction that never arrived.
Then he put down the empty jug,
and winked at us.
The amonia-and-molasses smell of cut
Burdock gripped the air like a bull dog.
There being nothing further to laugh at,
we decided to tack back to the tool shed,
as Grampa returned to his grim business.
1. Mad Magazine