HAMLET OFF-STAGE: Hambone Two Tongue
I'm what you might call a two-track hamster,
twirl the treadmill opposite ways at once,
double-talk Ham, like when I tell the players,
"Talk honest, dudes, hell isn't Hollywood
infernos. Hell's everyman's brimstone brain,
the flame of a wagging tongue blowing smoke
up one's own ass. Hell's here, under my cap.
Under you cap. Don't blow your spleen, be cool,
no Schwarzenegger-Sly Stallone cartoons."
I give them that old mirror-nature speech
then ask for a bloodbash melodrama
of Godzilla puking on a skinhead,
while raving pro-wrestling bombastic rant.
The ham with two tongues, me--with one tongue, I
tell the clowns don't add your jokes to the play,
then with my other tongue, I make up skits
with any empty head who comes along,
and end up ignoring the ghost's script
to make the play a spaghetti thrilla.
I double-talk the ear off my best friend,
I swear to Horatio I don't flatter,
then candy him to spy on Claudius.
Round and around I go, two ways at once.
I chew myself out, turn around and yawn,
my words more gilt on Claudius' crown.
Monty Brings Out The Mama In Them
Ophelia and I saw The Full Monty,
a film about out-of-work slobs who strip.
The women loved them like horny mothers,
cheered for these clods and their worn out kazoos
like they were hung with Coppertone trombones.
You can't stop women from their mothering.
The milk of kindness, boobs drive them bedlam,
mothering men to think they're in the band,
they're included, they're loved, they're not orphans
or homeless hung-ups with their hangy downs.
Gertrude will straighten any saxophone.