Dere’s lotsa confuciusess in dis story, eh,
Who da heck in love wit’ who and what da hey?
Gets hard, keep one jamoke straight, what wit one dude
Dressin’ like a girl (some ATB t’ink dis bot’ gross and rude)
Da whole t’ing says to me
Love ain’t same as fall quickie in da deer blind,
Not even close to that, not at all,
And dere’s lotsa udder stuff ‘bout how love-stuff make dem
Fellas go bonkesrsland, but got to say only one
I like in hull bloody story is mutt named Crab, and he don’t even
Got no speaking lines and is in fact quite drab.
Dis guy Shakespeare gets heaps a praise
Some of it so weird you can’t unnerstand what heck it says
But me I can’t capisce dis stuff or where it ‘pose to go.
Now if old Willie Bard had called dis play
Two Woodticks from Sagola, I might could have
Got wit’ da program and put my brain ta rollin,’
But like my old man usta say, wouldacouldashoulda
Whine over spilt homemade wine ain’t no damn gooda.
Willie wrote what Willie wrote
An’ he stuck us wit’ Gen’men --Eye-talians --
Near as I can tell, but not dose from down Iron Mountain.
No dese birds is from EYE-taly, da real place where da Romans got
Butts crushed by the Barbiedollarians,
And dis play Willie wrote wit’ snail-mail pace
An’ keep changing lokes and costumes and face,
Like deer hunter can’t decide one stand, keep movin’
Back and forth and deers all passing while he’s between
And he come back at night lament not one dang deer he seen.
Dere’s dukes in dis play (but not Da Duke, who’s dead
Like Willie Bard too), and all dose shenanigans
Of rich folks’ brats screwing wit each udders’ minds
Changing clothes an’ names and hats,
An’ by da end Da Duke he tells old Sylvia and Valentine
“Go ahead and tie dat damn knot.”
(But up here when we tie da knot, we mean hitchin’ up
Or getting’ hung, cause some insist dey pretty much da same t’ing,
Like double-hedge sword, eh?)
Willie, you want good story
Bout EYE-talian boys, pack ‘em off ta deer camp up dat Norway Truck Trail
Mind on bucks, not ginch and tail
Forget all dem schemin’ gals and how dey wail
Focus just on buncha pals gone out to drink till blind
And shoot whatever dere bloodshot eyes can find.
You write play wit story like dat,
You be so famous Sagola Sportsmens’ Club
Put yore face on a hat and me you don’t
Even have to thank, an’ you can take that to da bank.
Meanwhile I sit here by da bluegills’ beds
My brain in shreds
Da old sun turning my ugly puss red
As day by day my old brain goes dead
And some day dey will find my bones
On the lake’s sandy floor in the middle of day
Dead as bait on old poet’s fancy ole plays.