If All We Had Was Happy
- William J. Archer
- Mar 11, 2018
- 3 min read
Skipping. Skipping along today. Under whatever skies float above whatever situations we create below. You know? The ones we make when we forget to remember that it’s alright to forget to remember a birthday. A day for mirth. Yay! It’s okay to age alone. By the phone. Waiting for a call from a love you never had. So sad.
It’s fine that you’re not mine, this wine helps me pine. For a pine box. A shiny pine box that shimmers nothing like your fine locks. And bagel. A sandwich made for a sand witch. Which bagel is which? Hey, that one’s mine you devious bitch! No sandwich fuh yoo! Foo. Humble pie while you cry. And crow for desert.
The hurt and the happy are having a nap. We play cards by a window until the waves wash up on the walls. And splash down the halls. Hey y’alls. Those girls on t.v look like rubber dolls. For defiling, disrespecting and dumpstering. Put a ring on a real woman and there will be no regret for selling two souls short. Until then, you are not worthy to murder sad hope smoking forget in an alley. Hell is something I hope exists for monsters who hurt the lost.
Marmalade on toast provides the most sustenance today. And the grey of the night passes unnoticed while the sleepers close their peepers, and those awake during the hours that are wee garner insufficient notice to pass on the message. They saw the sky pass by, cloaked in grey before the day turned to yellow and blue. Some rain fell too. To water the wet I bet. And only the lonely were there to witness the weather. And soon they will forget.
Crying tears of happy can be shed after flying. I’m not trying to talk anyone out of a good meal downtown. But, hey! Been trying to eat ya. Must be a perogie between us. Anything made in this joint is good, but add some cheese, and please! Geez Louise. A summer breeze this way howls. It blows the fowls across the sky. Bye, bye birdies. I heard it’s nice over Alberta way this time of year. Make it past those mountains and you’ll never be warm enough to get a tan my man. But white is alright. Unless you’re blue. Hypothermia got you.
Dance to the pants blowing on the line. Then I’ll know you are mine. Field. Feeled the felt and my little chocolate brain began to melt. Nothing like the welt I got that time I hung my own little chocolate on the line. But I was fine. Nothing a little visit from exquisite chocolate angels wouldn’t make right. And they did. Thanks for the good times and the fine wines by a fire we set in a room made for electric heat. Different departments arrived to quench the blaze and they were amazed by things destined to end up on the front page of tomorrow’s sweet nothing. Hush, hush, money buys the bus. So that us tycoons can ride whatever we want. Start walkin’.
Say mister, you got a sister? I wish sir, my sister is kind of a bitch so I ditched her. No blood in this gene pool will spoil the party I’ve arranged for us smarty’s. Get up and get down. Shake those booties till Tuesday. Then get back to that work thing you do. I get paid for taking a brain pooh. Which I often do. So this one’s on me, for free, honestly. High roller rolling the wheeled down the ramp. Into the bus, off to wherever. But really, let’s do this again some time never.
