Monday, September 24, 2007

Ode to a Dying Blog

A writer named Bookfraud lived a literary life
Nothing remotely maudlin or sappy
He had a beautiful boy and doting wife
But he didn't know he was so happy

They took a trip in July to a place with trees
Without knowing the danger of pests
It seemed as if their biggest nuisance was fleas
But they took home some uninvited guests

Soon they were bitten on legs, arms and back
It left everyone in a foul mood
Bedbugs had started their evil attack
And were sucking their blood for food

At first they worked hard, vowing to win
Bookfraud cleaned up every day
They packed up their belongings in airtight bins
Thinking the bugs would soon be on their way

Oh, Bookfraud bagged his mattress and stored his books
Everything was covered with tags
He'd become so obsessed he hadn't noticed to look
That his clothes and his life were in bags

But when the bites kept pinching their flesh
Bookfraud's family was quickly distraught
Every day the bedbugs would breed and refresh
Bookfraud could only exclaim, 'My God, what has He wrought?'

'I'm not writing, I'm not sleeping, my skin is a mess
It's as if I'm made of plaster
There is no solution to this mighty distress
My life has devolved into disaster.'

The road to insanity starts here

Bookfraud vacuumed and cleaned two hours a night
But didn't make any gains
He had insomnia, aches, and migraines too boot
He was slowly going insane

Pest control came and sprayed with a stick
Then Bookfraud was suddenly illin'
The poison had made Bookfraud so sick
He had to take Amoxicillin

The exterminators came once, no twice, no thrice
As muscular as Barry Bonds a-juicin'
But bedbugs are hardier and meaner than lice
And just kept on reproducing

(Every treatment, Bookfraud had to sleep alone
Wife and Baby lodged at an inn
The man of the house was stuck by the phone
Drinking Coke-Cola, Orangina and gin)

In distress, Bookfraud tried to mend
But his efforts never left the station
He tried writing, his 'best friend'
(And no, his 'best friend' wasn't masturbation)

He attempted to blog but nothing came out
His brain and body were spent
Too angry to weep, too tired to shout
His literary ambitions were bent

He stopped looking at blogs and commenting too
Every moment was dread and remorse
On the Day of Atonement he was a bad Jew
Bookfraud ate and drank like a horse

His novel lies fallow, his agent is gone
Worse than any literary critic or thug
Bookfraud's too tired to consider if he's been wronged
His life ruined by a bug

Traitor to the cause

He doesn't read books
The shelves have been stripped clean
He's paranoid about funny looks
That brand him as stupid or obscene

Television and fried food became his siren call
It was all he felt like doing
Now he's climbing the walls
Feeling sorry for himself and stewing

So he awaits the end of the ordeal
His lesson as loud as the din:
Though still a bedbug Happy Meal
He realizes how happy he'd been.