Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 9.0: November 7th, 2007

I Run Pleasure Island 

by Belinda Roddie

It’s true! I run Pleasure Island. So many years ago,

my grandfather opened this realm of idle dreams

where young ruffians do what they please. Yes, they gorge

on sweets and meats made by the best of

chefs from all parts of the world.

My father, you see, was once like those boys,

his head detached and floating,

no plans ahead. Instead he played each day

until he was put in a single file line.

His high was gone, replaced with sweat,

low pay, and later a helpless scream

when he lost all but his wedding ring

as the blades tore at what became

a useless reminder of what he could have become.

So with a beard gone white by pitying tears,

my grandpa hatched a plan.

Just as my father became a jackass,

all boys like him would do the same.

And so they do, guzzling beer,

belching anthems of rebellion

until they begin to bray.

Yes, that very night

they fall, they cry one last time

for their mothers. The fools! They cry for

those beautiful women, whose one chance

to love them was lost when those boys

trampled doormat on their way out.

They call to them! Ah, but only so they’ll hold them

and save them from their terrible fate.

To talk again! To laugh again!

But it’s much too late. It’s useless

when to play is one thing, but when Jack

smokes and spits and Billy takes hits

from Jimmy, I watch with a pondering eye

And remember how Grandpa did it and why.

It’s a simple trick; it requires no magic

to have these boys begin their change.

It’s just as if they were going into manhood,

I’d say. But it’s not just a bit of stubble.

I crack the whip that has been used

time and time again, worn so thin, and put them in crates.

A wad of bills in my pocket,

and they’re off – off to work they go!

Hi-ho? Perhaps not,

but one would’ve thought, regardless of their species,

these boys would’ve turned out just the same,

lined up, packed in boxes,

used until they lose their breath,

just like my father! Oh, how my mother cried

when the idiot died, and though I felt sorry,

I didn’t shed a tear, and at the funeral

when I saw him, teeth brown from cigars,

his leftover hand black from making cars,

he was a strange sight to behold.

All he needed was the hooves.

So come! Bring your friends!

Rides and candy, absolutely free!

Not a care, until you set about adapting

to your new long pair of ears.

Have I no shame, you ask? Don’t worry.

My heart breaks to hear their final wail,

but it’s my determination that gets me through.

I don’t force or lead, I merely observe

these boys feeling the consequences of their own decisions

because as my grandpa said as I sat on his lap,

“My girl, when you see those boys, don’t laugh.

Be grateful that you are a lass,

for a boy who plays all day

becomes a jackass when the day goes gray.”

The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since November 7th, 2007.