Billy the bully lived on my street,
And whenever he needed some cash to compete,
He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made
And hang me upside down till I paid.
He’d steal all my money and beat me till blue,
Then laugh through a snort— as villains do.
With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,
He’d glue my hands to my ears— which wasn’t funny.
I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”
She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.
She’d threaten to sue in a firm monotone
From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.
This lasted until I turned ten years old,
When fate grew sudden and fierce and bold.
Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block
And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.
At just age ten— yet built like a tank,
Six-foot-three with a temper rank,
Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,
She ended his terror with one mighty push.
She snapped his foot bone clean in two,
A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.
His reign of terror met its doom—
Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.
And I, quick-thinking, sensing my luck,
Aligned myself fast before I was stuck.
I befriended her first— strategic and smart,
Then married her quick— the bravest part.
And here we stand, years later, unstuck—
Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.
 |
| robert margetts |
PAIN IN THE BUTT
Oooooh—
what is
that pain?
Starts in my back,
shoots through my body
like a coupon‑day
stampede at the grocery chain.
I
yelp,
I holler,
I put on a whole Broadway show—
“Stop! Stop!
You’ll break something…
and it might not be me,
you know!”
They
think they’re clever,
they think they’re slick,
but next time they’ll check twice— ’
cause dear old Pop
smacked my book
and learned my paperback
hits back harder than his advice.
So
back in my pocket
this trouble will stay,
waiting, plotting,
biding its time for another
gloriously naughty day.
