Though he claimed, “I’m descended from
Ham,”
as he conquered and saw and then came,he’s descended from Eve,
as I am, I believe.
Still, I fear I’ve forgotten his name.
Next, he chanted, “I’m Cuban, like Che.
And you’re right: I’m a knight who says “Ni.”
(I suspect the guy’s gay,
or is ex-CIA
on a time out-- or is it just me?)
When he crowed, “I’m a beau o' yer ma’s.
We two met when we tour’d Viet Nam,”contradict him did Ma –
with her vim and
her “Nah!
Come in, lad, from the cold. Remain calm.”
Why he whispered, “Mom christen'd me
‘Chen’
while supportin' my chin in her han’”remains vague – much like Zen –
for, in
fact, he’s a hen
someone (you?) chose to re-baptize
‘Chan.’
Then he claimed, “I’m a son o' that
Eichman
folks pretended descended from Cain."(That his father was Eichman,
that rabid
Third Reich man,
was roundly rebuked, in the main.)
Next he feign'd, “Dare I finger the hem
of the Buddha, the Christ or such men?”Nope. Their hems – though pro-tem –
are as long
as an em,
while his finger’s as short as an en.
Then he jaw'd, “What’s my job? Feedin' mice.
Without me, mice go hungry,” quoth he.“And, till you – 'tain't no vice –
begin
treatin' ‘em nice,
you shall never be mein bon ami.”
He supplies ‘em with cookies and chai,
treats they access by ringing a chime.When you spot ‘em pass by,
don’t neglect
to say ‘Hi!’
(If they ask, “Who’s your daddy?” say I’m.)”
“Anti-rodents be no friends o' mine.”
(He said that as he patted his chin.)“You’re like Seven-of-Nine,
or that
‘-stein’ known as ‘Ein-.‘
Or Mao’s kin-‘neath-the-skin, Ho Chi
Minh.”
"Is your surname initialed with ‘ai’ch,'
as is ‘Hortense,’ the name of my niece?Or ‘Hludowic the Vane,
who’s called ‘Louis’ in Maine?"
I enjoined: "Or the Butcher of Nice’?"
"Nope, it starts, as does ‘ass,’ with an
‘A,’”
he replied, whereupon I honked, "Ha!"“That's entir'ly OK,”
he returned. “Your ‘Ha!,' eh?
Though I so-o-o-o wish you’d answered with ‘ah-h-h…’”
Then he sung me a solfege: “…re-mi…”
“Why?” I asked. Answered he: “’Cuz I
can.I’m a ‘-man’ o' that brand
known as
‘he-‘ 'cross this land.
I am
the one-man band,” he said. An’......out he drew from his shirtsleeve an ace.
(‘Twas of spades: I’d bid sev’ral at NIMH.*)
Then he grinned as he took
up his mace with grim look
and trisected the card. (Ain't that him!?)
* Pronounced ‘nim,’ as you might
well anticipate.
Then he hiccough'd three times – each a
mean ‘hic!’ –
and remark'd, “Though I loathe bakin' miche(such a pain* turns me wan
an' anemic en fin),
it is still my patisseri’l
niche."
* French for ‘bread’ and pronounced ‘pan.’
Lastly, grabbing a Coke with no ice,
he, with mostly maniacal mien --yes, with mien mostly manic,
in panic
began: “Ich
bin
ein seifenblase…” (ronamtische strasse)
i.e., I’m your bubble machine!”
