by Sandra S Corona
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
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Willard Willagin wiggles his big nose.
When he scratches his behind, gas goes … blows.
He claims to hear things wherever he goes:
“Marshall Mallows, those creeps there called me names.”
“Just asked him for the nearest bass hole.”
Willard Willagin picked, then flicked, boogers,
split his straddle bending, giving to beggars.
“Marshall Mallows, listen! They’re saying things.”
“Just said, Sir, that his cheeks, exposed, glow.”
Willard Willagin began to laugh, snort,
his face seemed to split in two’s … two halves, part.
“Marshall Mallows, those two are up to no good.”
“Sir, we just said we’re itching to catch fish.”
Willard Willagin followed those strange men,
when they robbed the bank, hid behind a bin.
“Marshall Mallows, they robbed our neighborhood!”
“That son-of-a-gun’s a son-of-a-_____!”
Willard Willagin got his reward!
Some think him a strange sight, call him ‘retard’.
“Marshall Mallow, it’s great you caught those crooks!”
“Willard, how about we go find that bass hole?”
Willard knows bass holes are for fishin’
and the one behind is for itchin’
but handlin’ worms, fishin’, keeps Willard retchin’.
“Sorry, you go fishin’; I’ll scratch my itchin’s!
Let’s sup your bass if you’ll do the fixin’s!”