While I pondered as I laundered On Manhattan’s Lower East Side There came a yapping, sorta-clap-trapping And there was nowhere I could hide!
He was my first cousin at a dime a dozen And his name was ***** Shemp Today he’s covered in pie for kissing some guy And his suit is entirely made of ****!
Now Shemp is big and burly so I call our cousin Curly Our hairy bald cousin twice removed To smell this awful stink and to see what he might think ‘Cause cleaning pie off’a **** is totally unproved!
So we washed it by hand while we listened to big band Then stuffed it all in the industrial gas dryer We played some cards, waxed poetic like bards But my eyes got real big when we smelled smoke from a fire!
Now this gets real scary so we call our cousin Larry And the rest of the NYFD To help us out with his cousinly clout Which we seldom do often, but rarely
But when they bust down my door I get madder all the more And doink dear cousin Larry right smack in both eyes Which angers his buddies, a real bunch of fire fuddy-duddies Then suddenly from somewhere we all start throwing pies!
Pies from someplace straight into the fire chief’s face In all their custard’s-last-stand-glory Even that sweet-sweet girl next door gets cream-pied galore And that, Your Honor, is my ***** Laundry Story.
(Translated from original Brooklyneze by Girard Tournesol)
> As published in The Pennsylvania Poet's Society magazine, PENNESSENCE.
If the world should cave in two I don’t know what I’d do as I’m not Doctor Who so I guess I’d just save you. If you’re scared at night and if you've have had a fright would you let me put it right by turning on the light? If you graze your knee I’d give you something on me my last plaster for free:
all these things I say are here to make you smile so you won’t run a mile and stick around for a while.