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Mad Macque ( a parody )
| Open Poetry #8 |
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Mad Macque ( a parody ) |
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OLIAS Senior Member
since 2000-06-20
Posts 1090Pearl city Iowa 
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I wrote this as an irreverent tongue in cheek parody of The green eye of the little yellow god, by J. Milton Hayes, my apologies to anyone if I offend, you have to read the original (http://www.outhouse.demon.co.uk/madcarew.htm) to appreciate my warped sense of humour. The inspiration is in the original … I just altered bits. Mad Macque There’s a one eyed yellow stoplight, To the north on route four two, There’s a little marble mall, beside a town, And a broken hearted waitress tends the grave of Mack Macque, Where the yellow light forever gazes down. He was known as “Mad” Macque by the trucks on forty-two, He was wilder than they felt inclined to tell. But for all his to and fro’, he was just another “Joe”, And Myrna at Dons Diner found him “swell”, He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong, And he alone, her love, her brightest star, She was nearly forty-one, and arrangements had begun, To celebrate her birthday in the bar. He phoned to ask what present she would like from Mad Macque, And poking fun she told him, nothing else would do…., But the green eye from the stoplight up above. On the night before the “do”, Mad Macque had drunk a few, And they laughed at him as he puffed on a cig’, But for once he failed to smile and he sat alone a while, Then went out into the night towards his rig. He returned before the dawn, his shirt and blue jeans torn, And a gash upon his temple dripping red, He was patched up straight away, and he slept all through the day, With Myrna keeping vigil by his bed. He awoke at last and asked, if she could send his lunch pale through, She brought it and he clasped her fingers tight, He bade her open it saying, “That’s from Mad Macque”, Inside there was a single green stoplight. She scolded poor Macque, in the way that women do, Though both her eyes where strangely hot and wet, But pretty soon she’d gone and Macque was left alone, With the lantern he had risked his life to get. With her party at its height, on that still and balmy night, She thought of him, and hastened to his room, As she crossed the tarmac square, she could hear the dreamy air, Of Ry Cooder softly sliding through the gloom. His door was open wide, silver moonlight shining through, A letter floated gently from the bed, A pistol, still lay smoking at the head of Mad Macque, “Forgive me for the light” the letter said. The moral of this tale, girls, be gentle with the male, We are often prone to impulse and regret it, Be mindful what you do, the onus is on you, And be careful what you ask for… You might get it! |
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