The Fun in My Head
by Tom Morgan, 1942-
Personal-finance guru Tom Morgan is the host of Money Talk, which Tom believes may be the longest-running short feature in the history of American radio — 32 years and counting as at mid-2010 (and now on TV too). Tom also writes a weekly newspaper column.
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Give me a fire that roars like a beast —
That pours out a blast oven's heat;
No gas flames that whimper, no coals steeped to glimmer,
A good glimpse of hell can't be beat.
Oh, I love a dog that leaps on your chest —
That lunges, hauls you off on its romps;
No breeds that love yipping, need coiffing and clipping;
It's the lurchers and hounds that are trumps.
I yearn for books that claw at your heart,
That whipsaw you through all of their pages.
I've no time for effete stuff, in-and-discreet fluff;
Give me sagas that cavort through the ages.
The host pinches asses, ever refills the glasses,
Now that's what I love in a party!
"It's divine Chardonnay. A dab of paté?"
Stuff that in files marked "arty farty."
Hoist me a drink that explodes in your gullet,
That sandblasts ears, nose and eye sockets.
Toilet that claret. Bubbly flute? I can't bear it;
I want booze coursing in like a rocket.
Give me storms, I love storms that crack branches,
And whump thump the night at my door.
Fine days and fair breezes, they're for wussies, bring sneezes;
Better gales that scream out "This is war!"
Big storms I'm talkin', that flail, drench and hail you,
And flatten the trees on the hills.
Fine days are nice, but for me sleet and ice,
And tempests that topple windmills.
Heap me snow to the rafters, those are storms that I'm after,
Drifts as high as the old house was built;
No puny snow squalls, but gales that show balls,
And smother my house like a quilt.
Give me nights in the taproom, here's a fight, barkeep's tight,
Those guys sniffin' drunk Peg'll need hosing;
Keep tête-à-tête's to yourself, gentle chats on the shelf,
I want puke in the pisser at closing.
As for food, I love steak, worship ribs and rich gravy,
Sausage, bacon and chips won't go wasted;
Soy, yoghurt and snap peas? Salmon fresh from the North Sea?
That's the worst tripe a man's ever tasted.
Now poems, as we're in one, must pummel and move you,
No porridge that tippy-toes round life's gristle;
Spare me wee odes that waffle, they're insipid and awful.
Best are verses that roar down life's trestles.
As for mates, serve me steamy, over charming and dreamy,
Let them screw me in ways banned in Sodom;
They should howl, filled with pleasure, gouge my back for good measure,
Sop my mind with pure lust, top to bottom.
* * * *
Ah, my mind's — now you mention — all I've got, plus my pension;
I'm flaccid in jaw, toes and crotch.
The broads, dogs and booze, 'fraid they're yesterday's news;
I'm the one who the staff's hired to watch.
My jaunts are on paper, I'm not up for a caper;
My banquets are pabulum and mashed pear.
All the fun's in my head, I'm confined to this bed,
Or strapped to that fuckin' wheel chair.
So — fires, hounds and whiskies only live in my dreams,
With storms, nights on barstools, treks up mountains.
I hear gossip from nurses, the old fart next door's curses;
Boiler's shot, only dribs from this fountain.