On The Run

I’m running, desperate, on the lam,
Buddy, best pal, you’re my last hope, man,
I comprehend that I did some wrong,
But I never deserved to be punished this long!
Do you want to hear the whole dark tale?
Settle back, it’s grim enough to make you wail,
Filled to the brim with despair and strife,
The darkest chapter of my life.

It all began an hour ago or more,
When a I heard a knocking at my door.
I went down to see who it could be,
My neighbor Mrs. Winston greeted me,
She looked disgruntled, quite unhappy,
I asked if she wanted help with Abby,
(For you see, Abby was her little child,
Whom I baby-sat, an easy job with one so mild.)

A fire lit Mrs. Winston’s face,
It burned away her show of grace,
She drew herself together then,
She reached a rabid, angry zen.
She was tall as a mountain – you couldn’t deny,
No mean feat for a woman five feet high,
Her eyes were cloudy, brown like java,
Lava beneath like a smoking caldera.
“Do you have any clue young man,
What my daughter said last night?”

Her intentions here were crystal clear,
She wanted to inspire fear,
And it was working to a tee,
I was telling myself to turn and flee.
Yet I was stumped, very confused,
So I prepared myself to be abused,
And asked, with a calm that was fake,
“What did she say?” (a huge mistake).

The sirens blared, the news broadcast,
“Get out of here, there’ll be a blast,
An explosion worse than even Pompeii,
You would be an idiot to contemplate to stay!”
I was still naïve and fearless and young,
So I dared to confront the searing tongue.
I had the guts yet was not wise,
So I matched my gaze to her burning eyes.

I won’t tell you the whole conversation,
Let’s save paper – hurray conservation,
Instead I’ll give the basic gist,
There was just one issue, not a list.
Little baby Abby, that adorable girl,
Had met her mom in quite a whirl,
Of excitement triggered by new vocabulary,
Taught to her courtesy of me.

Her mom at first felt benign,
She didn’t see the coming crime,
She told her daughter “Go ahead,
Tell me your word before you go to bed”.
Abby obeyed, enthusiastic, ecclesiastic excitement echoing as from her elfin head with infantile voice there emerged an egregious effront to everything her mother had thought she’d taught her tot,
Mrs. Winston’s
Little Girl
Dropped
The
F-Bomb.

All I could do was stand there and cluck,
Like some hybrid between a man and a very stupid duck,
I felt like I had just been hit by a truck,
Like when I found out that a Euro was worth more than a buck,
Everything in my mind turned to nothing but muck,
I was almost catatonic until I summoned up some pluck,
I looked at her and said (my second mistake) ‘well, doesn’t that suck?’
Unfortunately this tactful phrase did not improve my luck.

I knew I was in trouble now,
That was clear, but what wasn’t was ‘how?’
I thought back to my baby-sitting,
I was kind and sweet (short of knitting).
And then a bubble floated in,
A delicate memory of some slight sin,
Maybe once I’d said a word,
That the little girl should not have heard.

I recalled it, I’d stubbed my toe,
And in my agony and woe,
I’d let my tongue loose with a yell,
A four-letter exclamation (specifics, I won’t tell).
But wait, was that the only one?
For there’d been that day I’d had a ton,
Of homework, when Mrs. Winston called,
She couldn’t be back home on time and I felt very galled…

Then I thought back to how I lost control,
When I wanted ice cream but had no bowl.
I remembered a night I had sworn,
When I’d found out I’d wake at five in the morn’.
Another bubble came from when,
I had to read All the King’s Men through chapter ten.
One time, sick, I’d uttered an oath most vile,
And despoiled the Winstons’ toilet in the meanwhile.

Then there were the profane phone calls with friends,
The fevered triumph or bitter gripes at sports games’ends,
Making fun of the Winstons’ lawn Gargoyle,
Detailing my agony about my constant toil,
Scoffing at the politicians on TV,
And simply in glee.
The horrible truth, I’d suddenly seen,
Was that my mouth was not very clean.

Wonder was that Abby, the child most dear,
The girl whose mouth had fulfilled a mother’s fear,
Had not yet gained from me a profane repetoire,
That would have made her mother put her in the car,
Drive her girl at tender age of three,
To an institute most disciplinary,
And mourn until she lost her voice,
Despite the necessity of her choice.

‘But wait,’ I thought and pulled myself high,
I looked straight into Mrs. Winston’s right eye,
I made sure to project self-righteous hauteur,
For what had I done that was so bad for her daughter?
It may have been my fault she’d spoke a bad word,
But for her mom to get this mad was completely absurd!
My mouth opened up, about to tell her “get lost”
When a flash came that froze my thoughts.

She was just a precious, cute, kind little kiddie,
Who was so young, small, teeny, tiny, itty, and bitty,
Nicknamed Abster, Aberoo, and Abola Virus,
Who might grow up as great as Persia’s Cyrus,
Or might soon become a delinquent juvenile,
Bleak future hidden by her now-innocent smile,
In my callous foulness I did a deed most unkind
I had corrupted the tot’s sweet, pure mind.

Now that she had capacity to gesticulate,
That word the FCC and parents unequivocally hate,
Who knew what lay next, her new shenanigans,
Perhaps she’d not recycle but trash her soda cans,
She might decide to join one of those nasty biker gangs,
Or become a scary goth with fake vampire fangs,
Would she move to theft then armed robbery,
Or gamble money on race horses and the lottery?

So I did all I could to make things right,
With moistness making my eyes bright,
I turned to Abster’s mom and spoke sincere,
“I understand why you came here,
And I totally agree, my fault and my bad,
If I were in your shoes I’d be just as mad,
I’ve done an awful wrong, that I realize,
So I totally, utterly and abjectly apologize.”

My face grew long, my mouth turned down,
I looked like a man about to drown,
My compunction worn upon my face,
Acknowledging shame and disgrace,
My accuser should have no beef with me,
She’d see my sorrow and have pity,
For though I was a man uncouth,
Mrs. Winston would see my regret’s truth.

I imagined now she would depart,
Leave me alone with my heavy heart,
For what punishment is worse than shame,
For one who learned that in life’s game,
He is not fit even to referee,
A tiny tot’s naïve activity,
Who knows he deserves for his conduct naught but jeers,
Whose moral indolence would from hedonists draw sneers?

In point of fact, to Mrs. Winston’s mind,
There did exist a castigation of the kind,
That could karmic balance restore,
Some justice for the verbal horror,
That from her daughter’s mouth had sprouted,
And assaulted her sense of safety, flouted
Her long-nurtured notion that children shall ne’er face
This world’s dreadful tendency to innocence debase.

Amidst my pleas and cries and moans,
My shouts of sorrow and regretful groans,
Her expression laced with e’er more fury,
Face red as if she’d eaten spicy curry,
Mouth clenched like a steel vice,
Eyes glaring at me as a cat’s towards mice,
Brows furrowed deep as a Norwegian Fjord,
I felt just like a matador who’d imminently be gored.

It was by this point I’d become nervous,
My instincts doing me a service,
I listened then, though far too late,
Saying last words her rage to sate,
“I’m very sorry that this happened,
and I understand if I am canned,
Goodbye Mrs. Winston, be sure to relay from me ‘hi’
To dear sweet Abby. And now, I bid you goodbye.”

I tried to close the door on her,
And in that attempt I did err’,
In speed I was a bit too slack
To keep her foot out of the crack.
She peered at me from narrow view
And said, “I’ve got some news for you,
Never again will you soundly rest,
For dirty mouths I do profoundly detest.”

She pulled out a machete, gleaming, from her purse,
I turned and fled, compared to angst and sorrow this was worse,
My apology, coming from both my heart and my head,
Had definitely not been at all accepted.
I opened my back door, hearing feet close behind,
And dove straight out, legs pumping, only static in my mind,
I sprinted fast enough to do my track coach proud,
From my house there came a shriek, blood-curdling and loud.

That’s the story thus far, and it sure is a pitiful one,
I hope that that explains, dear friend, why I’m on the run.