Volpice Firepickle lived on a ranch,
climbed up a tree, crawled out on a branch,
he fell right down, dropped on his keister,
and then he called out “Please help me, Meester.”
Said, “I’m Volpice, Volpice, and I’m in a pickle,
Can you help me please, just give me a nickle?
Gotta pay the doctor to fix my broken butt
and the rent’s now due on my little ranch hut.”
And that’s the story, though I told it bad,
of a weird young guy, a truly cheeky lad,
who dropped like a nut from a big tall tree
but had a good story as you can plainly see.
[There’s a strange story behind this one. I dreamed of the phrase “Volpice Firepickle” several years ago. I thought the words might have come to me in a dream after hearing about an Asian/Indian pickle, but subsequent research yielded nothing. Just the other day, while my wife and I were driving from Hot Springs back to the Village, I launched into a song, using roughly this “poem” for lyrics. When I got home, I wrote the words down, knowing I might be able to use them to claim that I had written a poem. Today, I took the words from my song and manipulated them into what you have just read. Some poetry must be whimsical, else it brings about a “dark night of the soul.” Isn’t that right?]
[#11 of 30/30 for National Poetry Month]
