No rose would smell as sweet as Bjork! by Ron Runeborg

Oh he wanted marijuana, and he said he pay me well
if I’d brought him one full baggie by this evenin’s supper bell
So I checked with all my sources, but the avenue was dry
I had to find a substitute for cannabis’ high

In the kitchen of me mother I was mixin up a storm
I tried taro root and basil leaves and ivy, for its form
but it tasted like a bag-o-shite, and smelled like da’s da Sean
I had to find a better mix, me time was nearly gone

So I chopped me up some ashbowl trash, some stubbed out fags would do
and then I searched Ma’s garden for the flavor for my stew
t’was there I found some wild mint, it smelled as sweet as Bjork
so I snipped it with the kitchen shears and shred it with a fork

At a minute to the dinner bell, I showed at Paddy’s Pub
and there was Barney Kelly near the ragged dogwood shrub
There I handed him me baggie and he sniffed it like a fop
then he pulled a badge and screamed “you’re pissed you moron, I’m a cop!”

Well I laughed like cousin Walter when his pants fell down at mass
then I shouted back “you got me bub! You’ve popped me Irish ass!”
Sure I’d wanted just to rip him off, but this was far more game
he’d busted me for wild mint, forever to his shame.

Ron Runeborg lives with his wife Linda and Montague Pierre the dog in Lakeville Minnesota. He writes poetry and short stories and currently has two books available.

 

The Parting of Ed the Sot by Ron Runeborg

There he lay, the gnarly rascal, on his darlin’s kitchen table
Himself had not looked better since the dawning of his years
But we owed him one more gadabout, to liven up his fable
so we begged his little missus, and she smiled behind her tears

It was off to Hooley’s pub we drove, for more’n a pint of Guinness
Himself was just a wee bit meek as toasts were gaily sung
we coaxed a round of fiddle from the local violinists
and we danced with Ed until old Harris nearly lost a lung.

He wasn’t hard to load again, we seemed a nod more sprightly
as we toddled off to Finnigan’s, three drunks, one surely not
‘twas another cheer and three pence for the man who shown so brightly
O’er the Kelly green of county Down, our brother, Ed the Sot

Well we partied through the evenin’ with our Eddie boy beside us
tellin’ tales of Eddie’s prowess, of his loin’s vitality
Yes we found our way to seven pubs, ‘for coppers would deride us
and remind our little party to respect mortality.

After dawn on that drab Thursday, Ed had heard enough of laughter
it was time he and his widow would be sayin’ their goodbyes
We had said as much ourselves the night before the morning after
so we spent that hour gently, while our Eddie closed his eyes.

Ron Runeborg lives with his wife Linda and Montague Pierre the dog in Lakeville Minnesota. He writes poetry and short stories and currently has two books available.

 

Come to the Acerbity Ball by Ron Runeborg

Some say a writer’s greatest worth is built upon one’s suffering
that depth is only reached through pain; then scripted without buffering
To honor true believers of the poet as enigma
I now invite you share with me a party for our stigma

I’ll send for you my favorite skull and crossbone clad balloon
you’ll ride in proper anguish to the dark side of the moon
You’ll wear your finest Visigoth, I’ll wear my blackest stare
we’ll danse macabre until the dawn (though dawn won’t visit there)

Let’s ruminate on sorrow, beat a fine dead horse or two
I’ll start a fear round robin, let’s begin with death by shrew
You’ll ride a foul but mighty wind, or play dismay charades
Let’s toot our funk on blue kazoos, let’s march in dirge parades!

I feel the turn already just by penning this request
I’m so much more an author when I’m sullenly depressed
So please accept this call to arms, let’s toast our gloomy trappings
lest we subject our readers to involuntary nappings.

Ron Runeborg lives with his wife Linda and Montague Pierre the dog in Lakeville Minnesota. He writes poetry and short stories and currently has two books available.