The Dairy Queene (Or Perhaps The Lack Thereof) The Sixth Booke

In Which Our Hero—The Narrator of Our Tale—Upon Ingesting a Mysterious Potion Imagines Himself to Be in an Inhospitable Landscape Devoid of Any Civilized Amenities; A Vision so Disturbing That It Causes Him to Lose All Sense of Decorum and Engage in a Most Untoward and Undignified Altercation with You, Dear Reader (And For This Most Unfortunate Event We—The Author and His Characters—May Only Humbly Entreat You to Forgive Us).

1

Last night I dreamt of dragons I was fighting.
Alas upon the morn when I awoke
The sun, through clouds and rain, was dimly lighting
The smoldered wood and coals I now must stoke.
I searched for embers, used a stick to poke,
But all was burnt to ashes to the core.
The pine, the birch, the maple, and the oak,
A plank, an oar, some driftwood from the shore;
No traces more of what they once had been before.

2

The wood I’d stacked last night was soaking wet.
Outside my hut a steady rain did fall.
Beyond my door I was abruptly met
By wind so fierce and cold it made me stall,
Till o’er my head I wrapped my woolen shawl.
Prevail I must, and so I grit my teeth
To find some wood. My fire, she did call
From charred remains with promises of heat
And blandishments upon my cold and weary feet.

3

I’d have espresso with a button’s click
In tales I told before the apocalypse.
No fevered sky, scarlet, sweating, and sick.
Instead, my love! Her rosy cheeks I’d kiss
’Neath azure skies, and not this noxious mist,
Infectious in the air both day and night.
Back then, I had the luxury to wish
For peaceful suburbs, children flying kites,
And not these restless dragons baiting me to fight.

4

Dear Reader, with my quill I’ve made a blunder
Within these words which on these leaves I scrawl.
Indeed I fear I may have made you wonder:
Is not the tale you tell a bit too tall?
Beside your hut there really is no mall?
No Family Mart, nor a 7-11?
The GU where you bought your woolen shawl?
Why must you gnaw on crusts of bread unleavened,
When you could grab your phone and send a text to Kevin?

5

For surely he would come without a pause
With vats of tiramisu bought at Costco,
And drugs forbidden by archaic laws,
And at your door I’m sure he’d say: Hey Boss, yoooo!
What’s with that busted, nasty, soggy shawl bro?
And what the fuck? You’re, like, coated in dirt.
Let’s vape a bit then hit up Uniqlo,
’Cause just to look at you makes my eyes hurt.
It’s time to go shoplift some shorts and polo shirts.

6

Dear Reader, O! your question makes me sigh.
For Kevin, like the others, he is dead.
You say: Yeah right. OK, how did he die?
Forgive me tears that first I must now shed,
As I recall the day I was to wed—
To Kevin? Dude, please don’t change the subject.
—A damsel fair, alas with feet of lead,
And though to moving slow I don’t object,
At times is it not best to jump and not reflect?

7

Reflect she did as skies that once were blue
Were clouded in a sickly toxic red—
Sickly? Toxic? Red? What’s wrong with you?
Hey man, relax. Just lie down on your bed.
Fucked up, are you? O Lord! Am I not dead!?
Stop freaking out! Just chill, you’ll be just fine.
Sipped thee a potion brewed in Kevin’s shed?
I did partake of his homemade red wine.
You didn’t save a sip for me for me you selfish swine!!!???

8

I drank even the dregs. Sorry Dear Reader!
Quit calling me that! O! I should have known!
The wine he brewed had hints of shrooms and cedar
With fragrant ayahuasca overtones.
Whatever man. I guess I’ll just go home.
Dear Reader, I do hope we’ll meet again.
Save some for me next time. Leave me to moan,
And let me rest alone here in this den,
To slay my dreamt up dragons with acetaminophen.

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