A certain unnamed blogger, who’s initials are Carolyn Shelton, recently posted a tall tale where I was turned into a duck. This wasn’t very nice of her. Quack! I’m unhappy being a duck, and so I’ve been plotting and planning revenge.
I’ve come up with an idea for payback that I think will fill the bill. Quack! I’ve written a poem about her poor husband, Brad, who has to put up with living with Carolyn. Poor Brad. Quack! In fact, a few weeks ago I posted a poem written by Colin Chappell, entitled Poor Brad. Yes, Colin feels sorry for Brad too, as does everyone who knows Carolyn. Quack! Quack!
The Poor Brad post was VERY popular. Quack! Seems it touched a chord with many people, who have long harbored similar sentiments. I imagine there’s a popular demand for more of this, so I’ve written a sequel to Colin’s poem. It’s entitled, Carolyn’s Poor Husband. And we know who that is. Quack! Poor Brad. Quack!
And so, by popular demand, here’s the–quack!–sequel:
Carolyn’s Poor Husband
Repairing her car, Brad’s up late,
Removing a runaway gate,
Or fixing mirrors that jump out,
Like silvery trout,
Because she’ll never admit she’s distrait.
Brad tries to save money, it’s true,
But she wants a car that is blue.
The silver is cheap,
And it still goes beep-beep,
But if he buys it, then she’ll go boo-hoo.
Coffee, Brad wisely avoids
As bad as a case of hemorrhoids.
Yet she drinks it all day,
And salted caramel latte,
‘Til she’s buzzing like haywired androids.
She doesn’t speak English too much,
Just gibber and jabber and such.
Brad listens with care,
While pulling out hair,
From that damned Pennsylvanian Dutch.
She claims to be sweeter than sugar,
Yet she’s older than Brad, a real cougar.
His “Sweet Carolyn,”
Can really wear thin,
Reminding him more of a booger.
I’ve never met Poor Brad,
And that leaves me feeling sad.
But I would be pissed,
If he doesn’t exist,
Because then we will all have been had.