Wayne Michael DeHart (September, 2021)
Though none were inclined to agree, the brash braggart boasted he’d be
a man in command; leading the band, living his life so high and so grand.
A weed devotee, at eighteen he was free, to chill and get stoned by the sea.
He tanned, and rolled reefers by hand, as he manly-manned a lifeguard stand.
Five years into a toking spree, he was busted, mistrusted, at age twenty-three.
Canned, banned, he split the sand of the strand to seek and seed fertile land.
Due west from Myrtle Beach he did flee, past the lea, to Big Tree, near Elloree,
to try his hand (poorly planned) at planting and growing his very own brand.
This jobless jackal named Jake, a snippety snake, a claim he did stake
on an expanse so divine – eight acres of pine, or perhaps it was nine.
He hoped for fresh water – a pond or a lake – befitting a Walden remake,
but away from the brine, his stars didn’t align, and his moon didn’t shine.
Told he could neither borrow nor make the big bucks that would take,
said, “okay, fine, if but one acre be mine, dinky and dry I cannot decline.”
A fake, a flake, a walking mistake, hallelujah, the dreamer was finally awake.
He dragged his own line, hell-bent to define, to design, a brand he’d refine.
Sharing here what I hear, he and John Deere, they launched into high gear,
felling trees left and right, till sunlight took flight, giving ground to the night.
He pledged to persevere, and in just one-sixth of a year, he was able to clear
a feasible, functional farming site, the prize for his fight, a freewheeler’s delight.
Jake toasted himself with beer and a cheer, and Ms. Mary Jane abuzz in his ear.
“A joint venture bright, airtight,” mused the mock, mythical, modern-day knight.
Then from his rear did appear a doe-eyed dear, a damsel top-tier, à la Guinevere,
attired purely in white, to excite on sight, so slim and slight, a spellbinding sprite.
His eyes were aglow, this swaggering schmuck/schmo, as he hungrily hollered hello
to the enchanting young maid who coyly displayed genteel jewelry of genuine jade.
He could not know what quid pro quo this vivacious vamp/vixen would deem apropos,
but the guy never frayed, stayed stoic, stayed staid, smugly sure he couldn’t be played.
She sipped Bordeaux, he slurped Merlot; when they gave it a go, she snatched his dough.
He strayed and got meekly Miss-laid. Dismayed, disarrayed, the fated flier felt his fire fade.
The faux Thoreau became a kept beau, a weak bro, a punchless putz in her puppet show.
Unforgiving, unafraid, on a crusade, “Jen” disparaged his doobie till he sadly “oy vey!”-ed.
But wait – what was his quo, and what was her quid? Jake didn’t know, but Jen sure did.
From whence had she come, with her cute little bum, bearing a pear as sweet as a plum?
Well, think back to your time as a kid, when your ego was battered, and twice so your id.
Remember the boy who called you dumb, and tangled your hair with goo, glue and gum?
Milady didn’t forget, so heaven forbid, what havoc she’d wreak, way out here off the grid.
By nine Jake had become a nastily numb, callously caustic, cruelly crude, sick sack of scum.
Transfigured, the now lovely, lithe lassie let loose her lid, and into her quid, his quo she slid.
She gave the crumb “some,” then watched him succumb to her cunning game of zero sum.
The chump learned the tables had turned. His bread was gone but her butter got churned.
That acre he bought, financed without thought, was part and parcel of her father’s woodlot.
Jake hadn’t worried and wasn’t concerned, that his payments were twofold what he earned.
A “man in command” he proved to be not, because lessons unheeded are lessons untaught.
Once he discerned his buns had been burned, his botched bid for a brand stood adjourned.
She had cached all his cash, leaving him naught, then Daddy foreclosed on poor Jake’s plot.
He sat sadly spurned, his life overturned. The dope never returned for that which he yearned.
Jen at last got the revenge she sought, wielding her wiles, while lampooning his lance a lot !
Almost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . forgot:
Jenny hooked up hot, to trot, with King Artie “Wart”, a royal big shot.
They tied a knoble knuptial knot, in a most congenial spot,
where by her own hand, she bred her own brand – “Jen’s Jerky” pot,
before happily-ever-aftering . . . there . . . in . . . Cam-e-lot.
A bit bizarre, sure – but Richard Harris himself says “IT’S TRUE !!!!!” . . .
Eager beaver Jake flexing for the camera in the act of “felling trees left and right” …
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