The Killer's Apology

    Here I sit, upon death row 
  Electrodes fastened to my toes. 
 And though I know that I must die 
    I think I should apologize 
To those I know that I have wronged, 
Beaten, strangled, stuck with prongs 
  It was not what I really meant 
  All those deaths were accidents. 

   I did not mean to murder Sam 
   Though I beat him with a ham. 
 He said the meat was much too dry 
  So I used his head to tenderize. 
 And I did not mean to dispatch Sue 
 by filling both her lungs with glue. 
I should have known there were better 
   Ways for us to stick together. 

   I have to say I quite regret 
    Defenestrating my pal Chet. 
   But really, how was I to know 
That window wouldn't just stay closed? 
  Becky's death -- a random fluke; 
My prints were planted on that flute. 
And though they searched high and low 
   They never found that piccolo. 

 I spare a moment for good ol' Jake 
    Who I deposited in the lake. 
 I always thought that he could swim; 
I guess the restraints are what did him in. 
    And oh, how I do miss Peter 
 Though I stuffed him in a water heater. 
 He might not have made it in this verse 
  If I hadn'ta stuck him in head first. 

  Bonnie, my bonnie, my, what a lass! 
      Taken down by methane gas. 
  If I only knew then what I know now: 
  Don't ever mess with a farting cow. 
   And I'll admit, the point is moot 
     Albert I did electrocute. 
   Children, never take this risk: 
  Water and toasters just don't mix. 

   Wendy was an awful  neighbor 
  But I'm sorry about the elevator. 
 I did not know she was in the thing 
When I snipped the cable like a string. 
I'd like to remember my good friend Drew 
   Who I served up in a barbecue. 
It was his idea, really, because you see 
  He always liked to say "Eat Me." 

    I think I was misunderstood 
 When I tied up Katie in those woods 
 She always said she liked the bears 
    So I put honey in her hair. 
    Alan claimed he was a jock 
   So I crushed him with a rock. 
 His boast that he was made of steel 
 Was something rather less than real. 

 No one was more surprised than Joan 
That ferrets stripped her to the bone. 
  Reflecting, I see I was foolhardy 
 To place bacon up and down her body. 
    Mike had on an amazing grin 
  When I set him in liquid nitrogen. 
 I did not do so for the hell of it; 
  I wanted to put him in his element. 

    Bob declared I was a buffoon; 
 I set him aloft in a weather balloon. 
But there is not one who felt more grief 
When that balloon popped at 45,000 feet. 
   Jeremy was timid, Jeremy was shy 
I placed him in an oven and set it on fry. 
I should have known better, that this was not 
The way to help women to think he was hot. 

So you see every death was quite accidental 
I would not blame you if you thought I was mental. 
 But I would say that it is rather as such: 
My problem was just that I cared too darn much. 
    Now here I go, to meet my God 
And all of my friends that I put in the sod. 
I have just one wish, if you lean close to hear: 
It's to help them up there as I helped them down here. 

                                                    -- John Scalzi 

copyright(c) John Scalzi

John Scalzi is a columnist and humorist living in Virginia.
For more columns and essays, visit his website: www.scalzi.com

  

A musical lady from China
Stretched catgut across her vagina
The result of this trick
(With a well-rosined prick)
Was _Toccata and Fugue in D minor_

Ode to Spam

                                      by Charlie Johnston



                              Oh SPAM!  Oh SPAM!  Gourmet delight!
                               My food by day, my dreams by night.
                              To carve, to slice, to dice you up -
                           pureed in a blender and sipped from a cup.

                              What shining deity from Olympus knelt
                              down to the earth and hog butt smelt?
                               Creating then man's eternal desire
                              for swine entrails congealed by fire.

                             On some corporate farm, a pig has died.
                              Eyes, tongue, and snout end up inside
                               that cube of SPAM hidden in the can
                                I now hold in my trembling hand.

                               More than mere food, SPAM is for me
                           a hedonistic expression of gluttonous glee.
                         Mottled with pork fat, the pink cube engrosses.
                          My mouth takes it in, my intestine disposes.

                           Long have my arteries clogged to the sound
                          of sizzling SPAM when there's no one around -
                             furtively chewing or swallowing whole.
                            Triple bypass by forty, my medical goal.

                      Other processed meat products I've tried or declined
                        Vienna Sausages, Treet, even pig's feet in brine.
                           Though each may be tasty in different ways,
                             none matches SPAM for gelatinous glaze.

                               That glistening pinkness beckons me
                                   with gristle, fat, and BHT.
                            Oh Spam, my Spam - the taste, the smell -
                              The sacred meat product from Hormel.

There was a young athlete named Grimmon 
Who developed a new way of swimmin': 
By a marvellous trick 
He would skull with his prick, 
Which attracted loud cheers from the women. 

A disgusting young man named McGill
Made his neighbors exceedingly ill
Because of his habits
Involving white rabbits
And a bird with a flexible bill.