DC Barks
A poem I put together today at the Bolton writing workshop. Not really much else to say, except that I'm TOTALLY excited for Avenue Q this weekend.
Hayes's Pittsburgh is a fat lady,
Sandburgh's Chigago a broad-shouldered man,
And Gaiman says every city has its gender.
Well...
My D.C. is a pure-bred, pedigreed mutt from an overcrowded, dirty D.C. Pound.
Trash litters her cage, and hobo fleas squat in her fur
But one look from those mismatched eyes that pierce you
From beneath her piebald coat, and you know-
It isn't you who picked her outta the pound.
She picked you.
And the bitch means business.
If you brush out her coat, you'll see a million colors,
But you'll never know them until you take her for a stroll.
Walks with D.C. are rambling and round
And take you down impossible side streets that make you think
Thank you
God
For not letting me get mugged.
Or, after a while,
Pfff, that wasn't so bad.
And as you walk, the colors of D.C.'s coat take on meaning
Her relations explained:
You see the severe, yet loving poise of her German Shepherd side
And the jaunty quirk of her tail reveals that Japanese Akita in her.
Every Little Italy is another little bit of Italian Shorthair in her blood,
And her founding father was an English Sheepdog.
Some folks look at my D.C. and say she looks dumb, unrefined, and far too loud.
D.C. Barks out the tune of an aria she overheard at the Kennedy Center,
Points them towards the Smithsonian,
And finishes off her argument by leaving a warm stinking pile of
Flyers, politics, and F-bombs on their shoes.
She's the center of her own little world,
An independent bitch.
And damn if I don't love her for it.
Hayes's Pittsburgh is a fat lady,
Sandburgh's Chigago a broad-shouldered man,
And Gaiman says every city has its gender.
Well...
My D.C. is a pure-bred, pedigreed mutt from an overcrowded, dirty D.C. Pound.
Trash litters her cage, and hobo fleas squat in her fur
But one look from those mismatched eyes that pierce you
From beneath her piebald coat, and you know-
It isn't you who picked her outta the pound.
She picked you.
And the bitch means business.
If you brush out her coat, you'll see a million colors,
But you'll never know them until you take her for a stroll.
Walks with D.C. are rambling and round
And take you down impossible side streets that make you think
Thank you
God
For not letting me get mugged.
Or, after a while,
Pfff, that wasn't so bad.
And as you walk, the colors of D.C.'s coat take on meaning
Her relations explained:
You see the severe, yet loving poise of her German Shepherd side
And the jaunty quirk of her tail reveals that Japanese Akita in her.
Every Little Italy is another little bit of Italian Shorthair in her blood,
And her founding father was an English Sheepdog.
Some folks look at my D.C. and say she looks dumb, unrefined, and far too loud.
D.C. Barks out the tune of an aria she overheard at the Kennedy Center,
Points them towards the Smithsonian,
And finishes off her argument by leaving a warm stinking pile of
Flyers, politics, and F-bombs on their shoes.
She's the center of her own little world,
An independent bitch.
And damn if I don't love her for it.