Artisan
Artisan, a fancy word, that’s truly kicked around.
On labels of new products, the use seems to abound.
It used to mean a craftsman, who had bent to earn his skill.
Now the word is only used, to line the merchant’s till.
Loosely used, the word implies, that something is hand-made.
The excuse for imperfection, and a trap that has been laid.
The fit is bad, the colors fade, and food can taste like crap.
“By Hands That Lack Experience”, ought to be their flap.
AB
|
A word about Overseas Purchases you could not resist buying ....
Perhaps somewhere encoded on the box, it probably says something like this...
Imported Do Not Retern!
Open up your package.
The packing list should jive.
If not we had to cheat a bit
To keep our price alive.
\
Directions in your language?
No? Oh, such a shame!
Products less than perfect?
Child labor is to blame.
Did it break already?
Do you think we care?
It will take a million years
To get a new one there!
AB
|
Verses created about or off the names of common products to praise their merits or...twist the meaning of the name of the product.
|
The challenge was take a product off the kitchen table and make a hockey verse about it. So I chose "Country Crock".
AB
|
 |
| A Very Familiar Margarine |
|
|
Country Croc
I went fishin' with my Daddy, to catch a country croc.
We had to get up early, 'fore it was five o'clock.
Daddy packed the lantern. We wore our fishin' boots.
A-slappin' at mosquitoes, to the tunes of owl hoots.
I laid our gear inside the boat, and Daddy shoved us off.
We kept our voices very low. Dast not sneeze or cough.
Sneaking in our boat, a-gliding through the reeds
Progressing just as stealthy as the fatalist disease.
We finally dropped an anchor, out off the island shore.
I wondered if I'd ever see, my Momma anymore.
We only had some fishin' poles. Daddy must be wrong!
Don't you need a gun or two, to help a croc along?
All the night before, I'd been tossing in my bed.
Mean eyes and snappin' jaws, were dancing in my head.
Maybe just a chance, we were fishing for the bait.
I kinda feel confused and concerned about our fate.
Daddy got a strike, and his pole was bending low!
I'm saying "Hail Mary" waitin' for the bloody show.
Daddy reelin' in, calls out, "You get 'em in the net!"
I'm frozen for a moment. I hope my pants ain't wet.
In the bottom of the boat, I spy a baseball bat.
With the trouble comin' on, we'll be a-needin' that.
I really am too young to die, so is Daddy too.
Best get doin' as he says. We'll live to see this through.
I get it in the net. That part I carry out.
When Daddy flipped it in the boat, somehow it got out.
Eyes were huge and glaring, teeth were gnashin' wild.
Momma may regret, I was her only child.
Movin' quick away, it bloodied up my leg.
Daddy got it cornered, by our water keg.
Tail was whippin' furious right on our baseball bat.
Daddy tried to beat it down, with his Molson's hat.
Wild those snappin' jaws. I don't know what to do.
In my jacket is my lucky puck, the one that sees me through.
Maybe out of habit, I grab and squeeze my puck.
Then gettin' an idea, just how to change our luck.
Lashin' and a-grindin'in the bottom of the boat
I gotta take some action, to keep our lives a float.
I whip my puck into the jaws, with edge a-standin' up.
The kind of fancy shot, that could win this tourney cup.
Jaws locked upon my lucky puck, now harmless as could be.
We hauled it home for Momma, to cook and for to see.
With all the action going on, a detail I did miss.
Not 'xactly like a crocodile, but more just like a fish!
A question to my Daddy, was answered on a dime.
I never went a-fishin' 'fore. It's always hockey time.
"Some call a pike a country croc," simply what he said.
"Like to take you fishin' more. You're always hockey dead."
That night at our supper, there a-sittin' by my plate
Was my winnin' lucky puck. The one that shaped our fate.
Not only knicks from many games, hefty gouges too.
Once again my lucky puck, had come to see me through!
©2007 Artica Burr
I won the quarter!
|
Coming Soon - Zebra Cakes!
|
©2008 Last Update Oct 2008
|
|
