Saturday, December 02, 2006

Rejected Christmas Poems

As those of you who have seen us live know, we like to infuse Culture into our live performances. (It’s a nice counter balance to the raunch.) In that vein I wrote some poetry for our Holiday Spectacular (Sunday, Dec. 10 at World Café Live. Click here to order you tickets.) The first poem is all about the nostalgic images of Santa Claus. The second rejoices in the beauty of Christmas Carols. The third, I had planned, would explore the religious aspect of the holiday. This is what I wrote:

Hey Baby Jesus,
Cute Baby Jesus,
Lying in a manger,
Playing with some straw,
Die for our sins now and save yourself a lot of trouble.

Our director, Charlie, rejected it because it had too much of a "message." He also wanted something longer. So on a drive back from Swathmore late one might, Kurt and I rewrote it and made it into this:

Hey Baby Jesus,
Sweet Baby Jesus,
Lying in a manger,
Wielding a light saber,
Get in your Porche,
Wavin, to the honeys.
Wear lots of Gucci,
And a bitchin' nipple ring.
How ‘bout a man purse,
And lots of bling-bling.
Don’t forget Nintendo,
X-Box 360,
Sipping on the Grey Goose,
Staring at some titties,
Vomit in the gutter,
Run from the police,
Hide out in basements,
With all the junkies.
Shot in the stomach,
By a random stranger,
The world gets darker,
There go your sneakers.

If the fast life don’t kill ya,
The cross will.


Charlie didn’t like that one either. He thought it still had a sort of "message," was too long, and was also really, really bad.

For my third attempt I went in a completely different direction and handed in this:

A Mid December night
In the woods of Pennsylvania
There are stars up above me.
Like fires of inspiration
My breath on the crisp air makes the pattern of dreams.
The snow envelopes me like an old warm blanket
Comfortable and comforting.
No feeling in my fingers now.
My toes are turning black
That bright light coming towards me,
It must be the Spirit of Christmas

I can’t even comprehend why that little gem isn’t going to be in the show. So I didn’t even bother to read them this one:

Bail not the leaky skiff,
The man inside has no teeth.
He likes the taste of salty squid,
But the salty water chokes him as he drowns.

We have just over a week before the performance (remember, you can order your tickets on-line) and we still don’t have the third poem yet. I’m not too worried. I’m an artist and can crank out these poems in a matter of minutes. I’m sure whatever Charlie approves of will be the ideal length, devoid of any "message," and will fit perfectly with our sketch about Santa having sex with a random stranger.



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