Wednesday August 12th, 2009

The exercise:

Today's prompt: man on a mission.

My take started out as one thing and turned into something else completely. I have no explanation for why, but I do quite like it.

Mine:

He's a man on a mission,
He's demanding decisions;
The job will get done today,
No matter what you might say.
So stand back, make room, get down!
Ron McD's a crazy clown.

He'll fatten up your daughter,
Make her ready for slaughter;
If you think your dad's obese,
Wait 'til Ron gives him McTreats!
It's war with no finish line,
For America's waistline.

3 Comments:

Greg said...

Hehe, I rather like the denouement of the second verse! That's a nifty poem, with a nice little pot-shot at fast-food culture.

Man on a Mission

So here we are, just me and my gun,
Cry Havok! and loose the dogs of war.
Sat up on a rooftop, looking for fun,
Nature is red in tooth and claw.
Watching the mission bell glint in the sun,
People are screaming and hitting the floor.
I'm drinking my beer and shooting at nuns.
I cannot be touched, I'm outside the law.

Marc said...

Um, it's perfectly acceptable that I laughed out loud at this, right?

"I'm drinking my beer and shooting at nuns."

Yeah? Okay, good.

g2 (la pianista irlandesa) said...

He ambled into the kitchen, easy as anything, not expecting anything out of the ordinary. But one glance at the counter changed his demeanor instantly. Without a second thought he threw his long trench over his pinstripe pyjamas and flew out the door, letting it close with a purposeful slam.

Crowds seemed to part before him as he plowed through town, his gaze focused firmly on the air directly in his way. He didn't notice the bustle around him, could care less about the traffic as he strode across the street. Nothing else mattered but his singular mission.

Finally he reached his destination. He threw the doors open, to the surprise of the establishment's patrons. But they didn't matter. He approached the counter.
"Quick," he muttered urgently, "I need a bag of your finest, strongest coffee. It's dire."
The girl behind the counter, still half asleep at this godforsaken hour of the morning, shook her head and handed him the bag.

Soon after he perched on the kitchen stool, flanked by a french press and an eager white mug. He poured a bit of the press's contents into the ceramic mug, took a long breath of the pungent coffee-fied air, and sipped, most satisfied.
"Mission: accomplished," he blissfully sighed to himself.
-----
Okay, it's still late. I need sleep, but I had to write.

Yours, 'Loo, made me want to say "that's insanely exaggerated," but then I got thinking about it and all I could do was shake my head with a hint of an ironic smirk and say "then again, it's barely exaggerated, if at all."

Oh, how I love my country's sorry excuse for culinary habits...