My alter ego is in prison.
He acts out more than I.
In his early days of crime,
he’d wink as I stood by.
But things got really out of hand.
He thrived on doing harm.
Bad moods could lead to robbery,
bad dates, a broken arm.
And if it rained on my parade,
he’d go off on a spree.
It got so bad that even dreams
created jeopardy.
I rest a whole lot easier
since he is behind bars.
But sometimes I still feel his pain
at night, despite the stars.
I saw you crossing lanes
while on the whipped cream line.
Such a bold infraction
often brings a healthy fine.
Later in the forest
I spied you shooting mousse.
Then I realized your problem:
sugar junkie on the loose.
I certainly can sympathize.
You see, I am the fellow
who long ago stooped low enough
to snort a box of Jello.
So I could be your sugar king,
and you my sugar queen.
We’d rule the streets.
We’d eat dot sheets.
Look out on Halloween!
My skeleton’s skin has taken me in;
it’s told me lies, in front of my eyes.
It’s shaped my days in a thousand ways.
It’s helped me out, and without a doubt
I wouldn’t be here; it’s made that clear,
if I didn’t play ball. God forgive us all.
There’s a little white room where we
seal our doom. There’s a big black door
labeled "nevermore." We can step inside.
They’ll say that we died. And our thoughts
compiled will be stripped and filed
into reference books for both spies and crooks.
And our history will be lost at sea. Amen.
Caruthers flustered others
with his glib incessant gab.
The worst abuse life could unloose
would be to share a cab.
He’d talk until your ears turned red.
your anvil bled and eardrums missed a beat.
He’d find you in the office, in the loo, the pub
or elsewhere on the street.
As words flew by, you’d want to cry,
you’d wish for death’s sweet knell.
If after death he rose above,
you’d definitely opt instead for hell.
And when his chatter ended,
listeners slumped by its fierce toll,
he’d grab a sleeve, say, "Hey, don’t leave!
I’ve just got on a roll."