“Your honey plenty crispy”

nothing in the fridge to eat,
I, Grumpy Mcgrupy, intone
to those responsible for its
fulfillment and my well being

the greek yogurts all have passed
their expiration date, silent assassins,
the cheese bin international emptied
of American and Swiss citizens,
the remainder wrapped in white in
languages not spoken

the produce drawer, naked in its drawers,
except for a sweet Vidalia onion from Georgia,
which is just no good for fresh direct eating,
besides, my tears, copious already
at my state of famination ruination

final recommendation textual arrives,
a solitary fresh honey crisp appe in the fruit bin,
which in desperation I inhaled while
writing poetry in the bathtub

text my pleasure at this last resort,
with a shopping list to which the response comes
in a tone of high moral ground, teasingly defensive,


Your honey plenty crispy!

rendered speechless but her words
added too,
to the shopping list...

my house is scratched, my house is scrawny
it squeaks but it don’t shine
my name is Fudge the Brownie
and this fudgin’ house is mine

it wasn’t perfect when they built it
they had to patch and bodge
and they summoned this here spirit
out of every little “fudge!”
stubbed ya big toe on the landing?
****** on carpets that don’t match?
splinters on the wood needs sanding
and the gutter pipes don’t catch?
take it easy! don’t make boggarts
outta molehills made of dust,
leave me coins and nuts and yogurts
and i’ll fix it when i’m assed

our house it leans, our house it sighs
it ain’t got no level lines
but you got a Fudge here on your side
and this fudgin’ house is mine

i will fix what thing wants fixing
but don’t fix what ain’t yet broke
not my fault the sink is sinking
not my fault the speakers spoke
ya don’t see the dishes drying
i don’t put em on display
like the oil where you were frying
that i cleanly put away
******* all you ******* *****
i am like twelve inches tall
so don’t make me catch your glasses
cos you put em where they fall

just because you ******* bought it
does not mean this house is yours
you turned Fudge into a Boggart
i’m not doing your fudgin’ chore
you hurt my house? that's outta pocket
so i'm done being benign
you turned Fudge into a Boggart
and this fudgin' house is mine

mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mm

in a swirl of

cards, spoons, cereals,
books, brooms, thermometers,
laundry, photos, flipflops,
knives, gifts, rollerblades,
dishes, yogurts, candy,
catfood, homework, pajamas,
cartons of milk, tickets,
money, toys, sweaters,
hats, bags, sandwiches,
phones, pants, messages,
icecreams, umbrellas, lunches,
handcrafts, letters, bottles,
breakfasts, shampoos, succus
and tattarrattat

this
little bitty pretty one
is lost