THOU dangling above still-waters of backyard pool

Thou Foster Brooks-like drunken silent trap,

Tikian historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than this crap:

What lei-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape

Of tiki-gods or drunkards, or a mix,

In Wildwood or the dales of Jardin-Tiki?

What men or tiki-gods are these? Where’s the chicks?

What lawn chair? Why struggle to escape?

What Baxter and Denny? It’s music, man, wild-tiki!

Those melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft Sinatra play on;

Not to the pool area, but, maybe later on,

Piped into the bedroom ditties of soft moan:

Fair Tiki, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy power-cord, nor ever can my tiki-mug be bare;

Bowled-over, ever, ever in drunken mist,

And winning the goal - I’m drunk so do not grieve;

You cannot fade, though I feel very, very pissed,

For ever I will love you Tiki, for you are fair!

Ahhhhh... happy, happy juice! that tastes like

Fruit and rum, and never like Mountain Dew;

And, happy mixologist, unwearied,

For ever inventing drinks for ever new;

More happy juice! more happy, happy juice!

For ever cold and still to be enjoy’d,

For ever foaming, cause it was in a blender;

All bubbling drunken passion beneath that foam,

That leaves heartburn tomorrow, and me annoy’d,

A burning anus, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the poolside? (My pallies!)

To what jungle-bar altar, O mysterious mixologist,

Lead’st us to that heifer glowing in the skies,

(Man, we must be loaded if we’re seeing neon cows!?!)

What little SAQ by river or sea shore,

Or on Mountain Street with extended hours,

Is emptied of its booze, this drunken morn?

And, little town, thy streets for ever a maze

Will not silent be; and not we drunks can tell

that we’re the ones making all the racket.

O Plastic shape! Fair attitude! with beady eyes,

A toothy grimace and stunted legs, hanging

From forest branches under twilight skies;

Thou, silent glowing form! dost tease us from thought

As doth stupidity: Cold Mai Tai!

When old age shall this Generation X waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other “whoa!”

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,

“Beauty, eh, this juice. This juice beauty, - that is

all, you know... and all you need is Tiki.”

Dave “Tikeats” LeBlanc © 2001

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