Sequel to 'Christmas at the Hill Place' a.k.a. 'No Time to Write a Poem'

On yesterday's GAG posting, I shared a poem I wrote two Christmases ago for my mother to read at her yearly holiday party at the Hill Place in Elliotsville Township. In case I didn't mention it, it was a party I was not invited to...

Last year, Mum asked for an encore. She still did not invite me to the celebration. But I am a generous and loving daughter. I always try to comply with my mother's wishes, and so I wrote another poem for her to recite to her favorite people. Her guests. The ones she'd invited to the party.

No Time To Write A Poem

Last year my mother asked me—
“Could you, a poem compose?
‘Cause all my Christmas party guests
Just love your lilting prose!”

And so, with trusty keyboard
I wrote a little ditty…
Something ‘bout a puzzling gift…
I thought it was quite witty!

I kinda made a little fun
Of all you aunts and uncles.
I picked on your infirmities—
Your deafness and carbuncles.

Your body parts that were worn out,
The ones that’d been replaced,
The fingers that were sawn off,
Your sense of sight and taste.

But last year was quite different.
I had some time to kill.
I had an hour or two to spare
To ‘wow’ you with my skill.

Back in Two-thousand-seven,
I was a common lass.
And comfortable I was--back then--
To tease you with my sass.

But now those days are over.
I’ve an image I must keep.
No more can I be frivolous—
My thoughts must now be deep.

For I’m a published author!
It’s true, I swear it is!
I am, like my pal Stephen King,
A big shot writing whiz!

I must now have decorum,
I must display finesse!
Like my friend J.K. Rowling
I must wear stylish dress.

I must e-nun-ci-ate my words.
With fans where e’er I go,
No cleavage can I now expose
With blouses cut real low.

No more can I write poems
Of sneeze, or burp or fart.
I must compose pure sonnets
That speak about the heart.

My penmanship must be precise,
For all those autographs.
And I must put a tinkling,
Not a belly, in my laugh.

Like my chum Johhny Grisham,
My words will sound so clever.
No more can I act like a hick.
(‘Twill be a huge endeavor!)

My mentor, ole Tom Clancy,
Said, “Karen, don’t be humble!
You’re sure to hit best sellers’ lists
With your new book called Grumble.”



“Your star, it is now on the rise…
And yes, the road is rough.
But you will touch the hearts of kids
With novel, Grumble Bluff.”

And so, as you can clearly see,
My time is not my own.
I have too many pressing tasks!
I’ve gotten too well-known.

I cannot write a poem for you,
For that, I’m much too grand!
I’ve got to concentrate on the
Endorsements I will land.

The signings and the lectures,
The engagements where I’ll speak,
It’s going to be quite difficult
To stay this sweet and meek.

And so I ask your pardon…
For not giving verse or rhyme.
My agent said, “No freebies!
They must pay you for your time!”

But while I have no poem for
Your merry Christmas bash.
I’ll hap-pi-ly sell you a book.
(I take both check and cash!)

Happy Holidays, Everyone!