Dear Mr. Rudyard Kipling,
I tried to keep my head while all about me
The sound of guillotines went chop-chop-chop.
Decapitated heads were rolling slowly
All down the stairs towards the butcher’s shop.
The hardest part was standing out there waiting
A patron badgered me about his bill.
As severed heads soon bounced upon the grating,
I said, “Sir, would you care for a refill?”
I dream and think as much as life allows me,
And thus I often miss the train to work.
I meet with Triumph and Disaster daily,
They always say that Ruddy’s just a jerk.
Dear Rud, the words you wrote were quite confusing,
You mentioned truths and knaves and traps for fools.
I find it hard, just sitting here and musing,
To understand your metaphor of “tools”.
Such cruel advice you gave me in stanza three,
I went and took a U.S. mortgage loan.
Suffice to say, it cost me more than dearly,
And now I’m useless like the new iPhone.
Oh curse you, Rud, for my fiscal disaster,
Now organ donors hunt me for my heart.
Should I sell or should I flee them faster,
The latter’s useless since my Ford won’t start.
If I had never listened to your ravings,
I’d be a Man and the Earth would be mine.
I’ve lost it all: my life, my worth, my savings.
Before I read your “If” I was just fine.
A celebrity like you should know better,
I’m such a sorry mess like others, who
Have read your poem letter by cursed letter,
Our voices ring: “YES WE HATE RUDDY TOO!”
It’s almost Christmas