Poetry rules.

One of the many windfalls of my mother moving from the house we'd live in since 1983 to the house she lives in now, is that she forced me to take ownership of all the weird old shit I'd been storing in my jr. high/high school/home-from-college room for 20+ years. I have this trunk that I kept tons o' crap in--including notes passed to me in my 8th grade locker, among other treasures--that has now come into my possession, for better or worse. Tonight I was leisurely thumbing through a scrapbook I found in The Trunk. This one (I have several) runs from roughly 1981 (age 12) to 1986 (age 15). Yes, the most fucked up, awkward years of one's life.

Anyway, I found a poem I wrote in a 6th grade poetry booklet decorated with wallpaper and a lion cut out of a greeting card on the front . Damn, I wish I had a scanner...

The poem is called "Homework," and I'll be damned if it's not a classic:


Homework

My homework is not finished yet
I said to frowning Mrs. Glicketette
It was chewed up by my hamster, Fred
Who now, by the way, is dead.
It was used as a marker in my library book.
It's there no more. Just take a look!
I was used by my Great Aunt Myrtle,
To feed her pet turtle, Pirtle.
People found it such a beaut,
It's now in the Smithsonian Institute!

Again, I wish I had a scanner b/c there's also a picture I drew to accompany the poem. It's obviously me (big blonde perm gives me away) and the "frowning Mrs. Glicketette" standing in front of me with a severe gray bun and a paddle in her hand as big, if not bigger, than my head.