A Little Collection of Light Verse

by Scott Emmons
illustrated by Chris Harding




Lord of the Bored
(To the tune of "My Favorite Things")

Long-winded chapters that run on forever,
Hobbits with habits more cutesy than clever,
Tedious ballads that everyone sings,
That's what I hate about Lord of the Rings!

Landscapes belabored in endless digressions,
Pages on elf lore and royal successions,
Too many threats from the Nazgul with wings,
That's what I hate about Lord of the Rings!

It's so boring,
I start snoring,
And it pains me just to know
That if I'm to finish The Lord of the Rings,
I've hundreds of pages to go!

Shire-folk and Dwarf-folk and Ent-folk and Orc-folk,
Stories that blatantly pander to dork-folk,
Gray-bearded wizards and wearisome kings,
That's what I hate about Lord of the Rings!

The Wench's Tale
A Fragment of Chaucer

A WENCH ther was, a homely dame forsoothe,
Ful graye of haar, and longge in the toothe.
Neer twenty stone of heft she was, and yette
A parfait hottye on the Internette.
For on hir syte appeered a yongge slutte
With ample boosom, firm, yrounded butte,
And gammes that war shapely, slim and longge,
In al, a parfait hottye in a thongge.
So wolde she tempten men that war alone
To callen hir ech nyghte by telephone
And speken of erotic fantasye,
Of which they hadde the first three mynutes free.
But whan that little tyme was at an ende,
Three ninety-nine a mynute wolde they spende.
And she, with tendre voice like fynest silke,
Wolde string them on, their creditte carddes to milke.
And so she made hir custommeres to wanke
And snikkered al the way unto the banke.

Wait, There's More!
A Horror Story

Once upon a weekend dreary, while I brooded, eyeballs bleary,
Watching cheesy videos I'd seen a hundred times before,
Tightly to my beer can clinging, suddenly I heard a ringing.
Some insistent ting-a-linging just outside my chamber door.
"It's the telephone," I muttered, "just outside my chamber door.
Only this and nothing more."

Setting down my classic Chee-tos by my jalapeño Fritos,
Dodging heaps of stale Doritos scattered on my unswept floor,
Toward the irksome sound I stumbled. With that ringing phone I fumbled,
For my brains were slightly jumbled, as I'd hoisted three or four.
"Yeah?" I said, a little miffed, for getting up had been a chore.
Silence there, and nothing more.

Oh! what grave and grim vexation followed from that hesitation!
For I knew its meaning from a million calls I'd had before.
Surely this was someone selling vinyl siding for my dwelling,
Cell phone service, fortune-telling, or vacations by the shore.
Some rude telemarketer whose kind all decent folk abhor.
"Eat my shorts!" I duly swore.

Back into my chamber turning, temples throbbing, stomach churning,
Once again I heard a ringing too annoying to ignore.
Angered to the point of fever, then I lifted that receiver,
When a voice like Beaver Cleaver chilled me to my very core.
"Hi!" it said. "My name is Hank. I represent The Credit Store.
Listen up, I'll tell you more!"

There I stood, morose and glaring, all my sickened soul despairing,
Mind ablaze with fantasies of murder, mayhem, blood and gore.
Yet, my rising wrath restraining, some composure still maintaining,
Civilly I tried explaining that no sales would be in store.
"I'm not interested," I said. "Your scripted pitch I'll just ignore.
Please don't call me anymore."

"Sir," he said, not hesitating, "your outstanding credit rating
Ought to be rewarded with a deal you've never seen before.
From the data we've collected, we can tell you're well respected.
Out of millions you're selected for a card that's called Explore!
Act today, and you can get an APR of six point four.
All of this and much, much more!"

Presently my wrath grew stronger. Pulling punches then no longer,
"Pal," I said, "perhaps I didn't make my meaning clear before.
What you're selling, I'm not buying. If you find that mystifying,
Here's what I've been long implying. Do not plague me anymore!
Strike my number off your list. Your deal's a sham and you're a bore!
Quoth the caller, "Wait, there's more!"

Now this bold and brazen answer burrowed like a raging cancer
Eating at my very soul, if you'll excuse the metaphor.
"Jerk!" I cried. "You shameless dastard! Are you deaf or are you plastered?
No, you're just a vicious bastard, as I might have guessed before!
Stinking, low-life horse's bottom! And your mother is a whore!
Quoth the caller, "Wait, there's more!"

"Fiend!" I shouted. "Thing of evil! Telemarketer or devil!
Enemy of all that's sacred, all that man and God adore!
From this torture most appalling, into madness I am falling.
Cease from this infernal calling, and my sanity restore!
Find an ounce of mercy in you, and my sanity restore!"
Quoth the caller, "Wait, there's more!"

Once again that phrase was spoken, and my fragile soul was broken.
Shrieking, trembling, sobbing, I collapsed upon my chamber floor.
And that caller, ever hawking, still is talking, still is talking,
Like some hellish raven squawking on the night's Plutonian shore.
And inside my fevered brain I hear that voice I so deplore,
As it echoes, "Wait, there's more!"

Hubie Vaughn
(With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

In Kokomo did Hubie Vaughn
A nice split-level home acquire.
Where thickly-shaded Elm Street ran
Towards strip malls little known to man,
And there he did retire.
Two thousand feet of grassy ground
With picket fence were girdled round.
And here were hedges hewn in graceful lines,
A birdbath by a weeping willow tree;
A trellis overgrown with clinging vines,
A large garage to house his SUV.

But oh! the roof began to leak!
The paint peeled off in curling flakes.
Ere long the plumbing did corrode.
The upstairs toilet overflowed
Each time he used the jakes.
He wasn't much for home repair,
But not succumbing to despair,
He found a rube to buy the house that day
For slightly more than he himself had spent
And bought a condo down in Tampa Bay,
Where now he spends his days and lives content.

Copyright Notice:
All written content on this site ©2002-2003 Scott W. Emmons