Creation in the Crapper

No matter how erudite and urbanite

Merle Seton pretended to be,

he was plagued by tics and scratches,

weighed by cups full of hicks in batches

adjustments and anti-climax.

eyes full of crust, ears full of wax

Every time he tried to think

Merle could count on a wink or a blink

he was always biting his fingernails,

adjusting his foggy glasses,

running his fingers through his hair,

wondering what was going on up there

picking his nose and scratching his balls.

refusing to answer any phone calls

Seton lived to itch, the scratchy son of a bitch

Whose idiosyncracies were not brought to his attention

because nobody paid enough attention to mention 

To Merle his distracting symptoms of tension

.

 

One day Merle realized that as far as he knew,

nobody had ever put pickles in their chocolate ice cream.

Merle scooped himself a load of ice cream

As if it were part of a sweet, sweet dream

He covered the ice cream with pickles

 poured chocolate syrup on the whole concoction.

He looked at his creation for several minutes

He enjoyed everything that was in it

wondering if he had produced

a miracle or a monster on the loose

He put his spoon into his invention

Ignoring the laws of convention

 loaded it with syrup covered pickles.

He scratched his head, shifted his hips

before lifting the spoon to his expectant lips.

Merle put the spoon into his mouth

looked again around the house

 blinked his eyes a couple of times.

Yeah, it was cold

As a witch's tit

Yeah it was sweet

As sweet as pickles could get

Yeah it was creamy

As a Genesee malt

Yeah it was salty

but less salty than salt

Yeah it had a slight crunch.

Merle's eyes began to water

 his nose which was always running,

ran a little harder and faster

He had experienced cold before.

He knew about creamy sweetness.

He knew about salty, crunchy and sweet.

He felt the athlete in his feet

Merle wasn't shocked.

his emotions were locked

Merle wasn't delighted.

Nor were his taste buds ignited

 his creation was far from a big wow.

Three spoonfuls were enough for now

He threw the remainder into the crapper

He adjusted his glasses as he flushed the john

He scratched his sun ruined, blemished forearm.

He figured if no foul, then no harm

The syrup pickle ice cream disappeared.

Merle took a look in the shithouse mirror

He shrugged his shoulders.

His mouth felt colder

He stifled a yawn

His inspiration gone

 decided to take a nap.

He gave his thigh a slap

Because nobody else saw or heard

Mum was rendered as the final word

  Thus the whole misadventure never occurred.