Getting Monkeys Out of My Head
Three hours, three words written, too many monkeys dancing
Put a hundred monkeys in a room, give them
unlimited wine, sit them in front of typewriters,
let them pound away the next decade.
A troop of monkeys will, by sheer random
odds, banging endlessly on old typewriters,
turn out writing worthy of Shakespearean
acclaim, or at least Bukowski after two bottles.
And here I sit, fifth monkey in the back
row, staring out my window, pounding out
senseless monkey gibberish, line after line
of nothing but banana stained scribbles.
Sun pecking my window… I bring you
Spring it whispers, come play old man,
come play… you don’t need to write today,
how about letting me warm your old bones?
I put my head down… must… write… today…
and dribble out a lonely word, then, wham,
slapped upside the head by a banana.
Damn you Carl, let me write, who made
you head monkey anyway?
