The Waistland
by Ned Nedmiller  

Monday, Oct. 29, 2001
April be the month that’s meaner
Than a shot of carburetor cleaner
Or an icy, uncooked wiener
Said the raven: “Ned’s a Whore”.

“Ain’t my lookout,” said the genie,
in a voice so tiny, teeny
Ned thought it a baby, beanie
And burned down the store just to be safe.

The chair he sat in, folded nicely
But his bits were getting icy
There ice fishing by the Diner
Should have brought his own recliner.

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead
Flew from Phoenix, or so he said
With a seabird on his head
Sea World’s sorry, Shamu fed.

As Ned walked out the sun was hidin’
Behind a cowboy walrus ridin’
On a dipstick with twelve feet
Dumbstruck people turned to wheat.

And in a van down by the river
Big Fat Albert clutched his liver
And sung out with jubilation:

“We don't need no Neducation
We don't need no rent control
No dark bananas burping Shakespeare
Tee-shirt leave those Keds alone!
All in all you're just another dick in the mall.”

And Ned’s toaster thought this funny
And Ned’s eggs found themselves runny
And somewhere six bags of money
Sang a song of sex pants that goes:

“Knock knock here come the glacier
Whoozat sleep in my bed?
Neddy-by your cups is all broken
Lois Lane ate the Grateful Dead.”

And since it was late
And the river was cold
Ned’s pants were lost
And his grandpa was old

He sat down by the fire
And loosened his tie
And he and Fat Albert
Ate a raven pie.