Please Don't Crap in My Mittens
First there was nothing but the bleak expanse of space. Then there was a big bang. And then later Latigo Flint was born, and then a bit after that he wrote a poem titled: Please Don't Crap in My Mittens, I Have to Wear Them if it Gets Cold.
That's the chronology that I've decided truly matters to me.
Most people are surprised to hear there exists a poem titled: Please Don't Crap in My Mittens, I Have to Wear Them if it Gets Cold.
"Really?" They say, already starting to burn with an urgent desire to read it.
"Yes, really." Comes the reply.
"Well, that is a poem I would very much like to read."
But Latigo Flint doesn't let anyone read Please Don't Crap in My Mittens, I Have to Wear Them if it Gets Cold.
You see, Please Don't Crap in My Mittens, I Have to Wear Them if it Gets Cold, is a poem Latigo Flint wrote just for himself.
And some things must be this way. Some hurts are not for display.
posted by Latigo Flint @ 12:06 AM
9 comments
9 Comments:
I love it when you end your posts with a rhyming couplet, real classy. A secret poem is beautiful.
Take your poem to a wild and high and lonely place and whisper it in a dark, dry cave so that only the wind may hear of it at all. Set it free to the great creaking world, Mr Flint. For the world is old and all-hearing. If it could tell us - say South America could pick up a pen or Africa could type or the Mediterranean turned out to be a great mouth - what tales of secret sorrows whould it have to tell us!
I'm sure it will help.
Don't listen to what Sam, the Problem-Child-Bride says, Latigo. For in my delvings into occult lore, quantum physics and advanced theoretical meta-mathematics, I have heard of such a poem. It is said by these learned scholars that Please Don't Crap In My Mittens, I Need to Wear Them if it Gets Cold has a particular rhyming structure and harmonic assembly that, if uttered, may unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum.
In fact, upon realizing this from their equations, the mathematicians whose formulae predicted the existence of Please Don't Crap In My Mittens, I Need to Wear Them if it Gets Cold resisted against all temptations of Satan and the CEOs of Enron to balance that one last equation that would describe the poem in its entirety. Because of this astounding effort on their part, the universe was saved.
So please, despite all temptation, do not whisper that poem in a cave, not even in a grave, not in a house, not with a mouse. Don't whisper it here or there, don't whisper it anywhere.
Doing so may unravel the very fabric of space and time itself.
Existence depends on you, Latigo. Be strong for us.
~ATD
I will give you money and buy you new non-crapped mittens if you'll let me read it.
"Some hurts are not for display."
Art (such as that which graces these pages) is about deciding which hurts are, and aren't for display. Discuss.
There are a number of ways to counteract the ripping of the fabric of space time, to which ATD refers. The most obvious of these is to first laugh a secret laughter in the high lonely cave; proceed with the whispering of the aching poem; then close with another secret laughter. This laughter will act as a type of ironic quotation marks around your poem and flummox the universe, which is itself tremendously good at irony but does not expect it from the human race. The universe will be so flummoxed it won't rip itself because it won't be sure enough of itself for such a passionate act. The very worst that could happen would be the universe getting a zipper, just to be safe.
I thought John Keats wrote a poem entitled "Please Don't Crap in My Mittens"
You've got more talent in your trigger finger than Keats had in his whole body, incidentally.
Oh, but Latigo! What about the time you read it out loud to a foolishly unaccepting audience? Has it been changed since then? Is this the poem of that poem?
I have to know.
Thanks Helga Von Porno. I love it when you call me classy.
Some hurts are not for display Sam. Please Don't Crap in My Mittens, I Have to Wear Them if it Gets Cold shall never see even the inside of a cave in a wild and lonely place.
See ATD, you wrapped it up and took it to that place where perfect, obscure references live and then you unwrapped it and held it up with a fist for all the world to see. I'm talking of course of "Sam I Am."
I got chills sir.
Why don't I entirely trust you not to crap in my mittens Memphis Steve? Not sure, but for some reason I don't.
I don't like discussing hurt Ari. I'd so much rather just wash it away with beer and whiskey chasers.
Humility demands I disagree with you LBB, even as pride sneers and beats its figurative chest. Thank you sir. You're not too bad yourself.
You know too much Tharunya. It unnerves me.
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