Editor’s Note: This poem is an excerpt from David Lawrence Grant’s This Poet is Crazy, an unpublished collection of humorous, inspirational, satirical, and fantasized poems. It is posted here with permission (and gratitude) by the author.
This is literature
It’s not about you.
If the glove fits it probably shrunk.
On the other hand,
The first to smell himself
Is usually the skunk.
New Hucklesbury is a mythical place.
Have some fun, go figure.
Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t
A satire, an allegory
Just one big complaint.
I live here, I’m ashamed to say
In New Hucklesbury USA,
I moved here from California,
A continent and a culture away.
When I got here things went bad
Then became progressively worse
Hence, to relieve my frustration
I wrote this little book of verse.
I drove 3000 miles to arrive, in 2005
To a log home, nice lot, trees, lakes.
And mingle comfortably with the flakes,
The redneck, eccentric, lunatic fringe,
But to my horror I caught the disease.
Depression, bi-polar, not to mention the binge.
I pray for the way,
To part the Connecticut and Exodus, NH USA.
So I’ll start with a list of my complaints.
Number one, the pusher. The weedy stuff
Is trouble, But the stuff that bursts your bubble,
Prescribed by medics
From the bottom of their class,
Who think out of their ass…is OK.
In New Hucklesbury USA, hills for the presidency
Say, number two by the way, I’m not a crook. But
The wife, she steals your poke. Blessed by
Jurisprudence, judge and a hay seed jury joke.
Enforced by brown shirts, like Father Germany.
Number three, free to live but prefer to die.
Under the waning flag of the Union sky.
It’s been a week now,
Since I’ve been off the junk.
I just couldn’t tolerate
The effects, put my head in a funk.
From the stuff prescribed to me
In New Hucklesbury
Snake oil from a trunk
With a bone across the nose
My health care professional punk.
I may as well have gotten the stuff
In an alley, pimped myself for cash.
‘Cuz in New Hucklesbury
The punk healthcare professional,
The twit, don’t know his face from his ass.
Doctors, pharmaceuticals conspire. Drugged me good.
So I went cold turkey, didn’t work, brain went hollow,
Just argued with my wife,
Then a nasty divorce to follow.
I wanted to end my miserable life, when
My stepdaughter’s boyfriend
Came in, thru the door, pissed me off
So I threw him on the floor.
Ensued a judicial restraining order,
Which in my wisdom to uphold I did fail,
By writing a simple email,
The restrain-ed, to the restrain-ee,
Brown Shirt says it’s some kinda poetry.
Better throw him in jail.
A little aside
Brown Shirt comes to my home
To arrest me. Go away I say
I pick up my dog to stop her barking
Brown Shirt pulls his weapon taser.
We’re doing this my way,
He belligerently says.
Again I say go away.
But he points his pecker pride and joy
At me and Muffin, my pooch.
Step down asshole stooge.
Else I’ll fry you. And your little dog too.
It’s true, as the day is long, hey, hey, hey.
Only in New Hucklesbury USA.
I must enlarge the scope of this,
‘Cuz it’s personal. Me vs. NH professionals.
A cop, a prosecutor, a judge, a jailer,
Treated my like shit. But were politically acceptable.
To them I was just California trash.
Too bad I’m not a minority
Or a Pilgrim from Plymouth Rock, or among the aboriginals.
A system of twits, silly people, excrement because it’s…
Suffice for the digression.
But at least I feel better, for venting my criminal confession.
Got a suspended sentence after some time in jail,
Wrongly accused like me, I even posted one guy’s bail.
Just one more thing, and to this I will imbibe,
For such a decent, extemporaneous diatribe!
Another aside from this diatribe
Remember Judge Robespierre from the French Revolution
The simplest crime resulted in execution
Judge Muckolavate was just the same
At least I think that was his name
I broke a restraining order by replying to an email.
Throw him in jail, no bond. Just $10,000 cash bail. For an email?
Can you believe this guy?
Is he Judge Evil or what? An idiot? But,
In my mind I see the same fate,
That caught up with Robespierre
Likewise will overtake. The civil service terrorist,
Judge Muckolavate. Here endeth the away
God help New Hucklesbury USA.
Nevertheless bless her heroes of war.
Returning to the socialistic hoar.
Three categories in New Hucklesbury
Those who are dead. Those who beg bread
And who otherwise epitomize
Those who survive. A job if they’re lucky,
Maybe write a book through a ghost,
On the backs of the dead and beggars.
Get wealthy in New Hucklesbury. ‘Cuz,
The locals love a heroic war story.
Vicarious valor, with no badge of honor,
Doesn’t matter what. A dessert,
Rice paddy, cave, a thatched hut.
Folks who’d quake at an RPG shot,
Up their patriotic, New Hucklesbury butt.
Brilliant legislators. No seat belts, no helmets,
Can’t license a bike, unless you’re an
Organ donor. Says biker Sue to biker Mike,
Let’s hit the road Dude, ain’t it great
To feel the wind in one ear and out the other
In the Hucklesbury state.
Says biker Bruce to biker Blake, duh,
We’re married, why can’t we procreate?
Live free without a seat belt,
Oops, crash, through the windshield fly.
Splat, red on the road,
The license plates don’t lie,
Here in New Hucklesbury.
Live free, dumb ass, or die.
Just one more aside for the heck of it
I crashed my car once. Holy shit.
A Hummer ‘cuz I got an ego
Head on, cur-firkin-boom Adios amigo.
I thought to myself, so what, I’m dead.
Even made the newspapers, the six o’clock living room.
No one died, a concussion, broken bones, a smoky plume.
But the aftermath repercussions.
Of health care and insurance,
Holistically. Made me wish I were Canadian,
At least they’re friendly socialists, anyway,
Screw New Hucklesbury USA.
As I mentioned at the start
I’m trying to get off the dope
Prescribed to me in New Hucklesbury,
Over years as a patient
At the end of my rope,
By a doctor with an attitude,
A psychiatrist too busy to talk
A therapist with no license.
Three Wise Willies, QUimby, sAndy, jaCK.
Leaving California was vanity.
I want back my sanity.
If I return, I promise, never again to stray
To this Hell hole, the dregs of the earth. Ergo
My ode to, New Hucklesbury USA.
My grandmother said, Don’t say nothin’
If you can’t say nothin’ good. Too late for that now,
Anyway she’s dead. Nevertheless, on a positive note I’ll end.
New Hucklesbury’s local brew is the best in the land.
Something like Moosehead, smooth. Here’s a trick
To use, when you’re tanked at the bar, get a road beer to go, down
The highway followed, by Trooper Coe-hyphen-Brown. Accelerate then
Turn, like a U. Head straight for the clown. Watch him
Head for the woods. Steal his taser so you got
A fighting chance when Brown, next time your dog tries to pop.
And New Hucklesbury lawyers, likewise, best in the land.
Minimize your jail time, I recommend. Chuck, Chad and Chime,
Chime’s oriental, nice guy, green card in hand. So I conclude,
Retaining C, C & C. Not the least condescending, in case I get sued.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David Lawrence Grant is a technology consultant in the field of information technology and computer science. After forty years of working in both government and large-scale private sector industries throughout North America and the world, he suddenly, but not unexpectedly, went crazy. He was once diagnosed with clinical depression and bi-polar disorder. If he had his druthers, he’d like to tell all mothers to not let their babies grow up to be computer guys.