Narrative Poem: I, too, am leaving Spotify.

 My dear children;

I want to explain my decision to leave Spotify. Even though I don't have anything on there. Never had. Never will. But I want to support people who have lots of money and no responsibilities. Because at heart I am just a lemming -- I go where the pack takes me.

But don't you be like that! I think you should all stick out like sore thumbs. At home, At work. Abroad. At play. And especially when you come over to visit us. I can't speak for your mother, but I personally am getting mighty bored seeing the same faces and hearing the same voices every time you come to visit. I'd like to see you change things up a bit. Maybe grow a second head. Dye your hair octarine. Wear clothes made out of pop cans. That kind of thing. If I never knew what to expect from you when you visited it would keep me tingling all over. And that would be good for my . . . uh, my prostrate?

I especially appreciate you kids who don't come to visit. That way I can let my imagination run wild about what has happened to you. Did the night wump get you? Or did you fall into a vat of limburger cheese? Maybe you're trapped in a molybdenite mine -- the air is running out; you're down to your last match; and the tube-nosed bats are closing in . . . 

Then, hark! I bust down the mine door and carry you out, one by one. To the applause of a grateful nation. My picture will be on brick walls and I'll get endorsement deals from Nike and Spotify.   

(Your mother just ate the last of the shrimp -- I didn't think there was any more. But there was. And you mother got it. She offered me some but I proudly said I could live without it, unlike some people who hide stuff in the fridge and never tell a living soul about it, so they can have it all to themselves -- I'm not calling anyone selfish, mind you, or accusing anyone in this household with having eyes bigger than their esophagus; I'm just saying that some people get all the shrimp while all I get are roasted peanuts.)

Now where was I?  Oh yes. Spotify. Of course you've heard the news about Spotify. It's in all the Tupperware publications. And on the Victrola. It seems James Taylor got sore and took all his songs somewhere and did something with them because of something that happened somewhere or other. I think it has to do with global warming myself.

We are currently watching a creaky 1930 murder mystery on TCM. Your mother chose it. I think probably so she can fall asleep and take a nap before she has to go to Springville to do her H&R Block stuff. I promised to go with her today, since it's her first day down there. Moral support, and all that.

I hope they have a good place to eat. I won't have anything else to do otherwise. I'll bring a book or two, and perhaps a block of marble to whittle on. Of course, I may just sit and ponder about finding a cure for paper cuts. Do you know that over $456,000.00 is lost each year from time taken to suck on fingers and find a Band Aid? Of course, I just made up that figure out of thin air. And if anyone argues the point with me I'll hammer on them with a bung starter. 

Or a piece of shrimp. 

Roses are red/violets snore/If you come in/I'll open the door.

Love,

Heinie Manush.