Author: Blind John Ellsworth

Blind John Ellsworth (1960- ), a (questionable) poet and sometimes Texas bluesman. He has recorded one spoken-word album (thankfully unreleased), since he is still trying to learn to play guitar. (Lack of musical skills is what makes him a poet and not a lyricist. Plus, he can’t write music.)

Monday

Damn.
Ugh.
Ah-choo!

Is it really already morning?
How much longer can I just snooze?
How bad could traffic be today?
What more do I have to lose?

I hate Mondays.
I’m always in some pain.
I wish I had another shirt.
Will someone see this stain?

Wow. Traffic. Lovely.
Looks like all the roads are blocked.
I should’ve worked at home today.
I should just go get crocked.

Only twenty minutes late.
That shouldn’t damage my career.
Especially after I walk the halls,
And see nobody else is here.

I need a quart of coffee.
Just stick it in a vein.
I need to keep it coming.
It helps to ease the pain.

Mornings are a torture.
Monday morning doubly so.
Let’s go and have a meeting.
It’s the only way to go.

Is it time to go home yet?

Career Change

Today, I work with computers,
I’m in a tiny cubicle every day.
We have lots of useless meetings,
And there’s never time to play.

I’d much rather be a pirate,
Who would sail the Seven Seas.
My crew would conquer ocean liners,
and bring them to their knees.

I’ll climb aboard the captured ship,
And slowly draw my pirate sword.
The fearful Captain would surrender,
And my crew would come aboard.

I’ll yell, “Give me your booty!”
The passengers would go nuts.
Rich women threw their jewelry,
Ghetto women showed their butts.

We’d sail away with riches.
I’ll have millions stashed away.
Yet, I’ll be a corporate pirate,
With team meetings on Monday.

A Stranger In Need

I met a distressed strawberry
Outside my local MegaMart.
He asked if I had some spare change,
While I returned my shopping cart.

He said he was from out of town.
He was lugging an empty gas can.
He was trying to get his family home.
They were really in a jam.

The cautious cynic deep inside me
Thought this was just another scam.
But he looked at me so desperately,
Then, he said his name was Sam.

I drove Sam to the closest filling station,
Where I quietly paid to fill up his can.
Then, we drove out to meet his family,
Who were truly in a jam.

I spread them on a baguette.
They were delicious.
Problem solved.

Mo(u)rning

Woke up my laptop this morning,
Immediate Blue Screen of Death.
Time to go make coffee,
Then stop and catch my breath.

A cold and dead laptop.
This is not how to start a day.
Of course, it means a half-hour
To restart and pray.

I really hate Windows.
Every version seems slower.
My expectations were low,
But they’re falling still lower.

My company wants me to upgrade.
“Go to Linux”, they said.
But their products are on Windows.
It’s really hurting my head.

The coffee is ready,
My laptop is restarted.
It’s time for the morning,
Not for the faint-hearted.

Pop Country Blues – The Girl From New York City

Editor’s Note: There are only so many stories you can tell, and sometimes, the same stories get told different ways. Blind John Ellsworth would occasionally recycle his basic stories, and assume since the target audiences were different, nobody would ever know. For example, what happens if some poor boy meets the same girl in a pop song, a country song and a blues song? These are the stories of the girl from New York City.

Pop

I met a girl
In New York City.
Her friends were loud,
But she was pretty.

We fell in love
All summer long.
When autumn came,
Our love was strong.

We married in Spring,
Our lives were linked.
The years flew by,
As if we blinked.

We grew old together,
We were always in love.
My girl and I, forever,
Are in heaven above.

Country

I met a girl
From New York City.
Her friends were loud,
But she sure was pretty.

They were Florida-bound,
Spring Break and such.
I tried to go with them,
I loved her that much.

We moved back home
To Tennessee.
I loved her madly.
She said she loved me.

One day, I awoke,
And found she was gone.
My New York queen,
Had sacrificed her pawn.

I still miss her badly,
I’ll dream of her tonight.
My New York City girl,
With her eyes shinin’ bright.

I hope she’ll come back.
I hope someday she’ll miss me.
I’m still waiting and hoping,
In the hills of Tennessee.

Blues

I met a girl
In New York City.
Her friends were loud,
But she was pretty.

Moved her to Dallas,
To start a new life.
Bought a house together,
Made her my wife.

Found her sleepin’ with my brother.
She broke my heart that day.
What’s even more disturbing,
Is that my brother is gay.

Made her a cocktail,
Told her she was still mine.
Just filled it up with poison,
Mixed in with her wine.

Buried her last weekend,
Was still sad to see her go.
My girl from New York City,
Now six feet down below.

Dog Poetry

What if my dog were a poet?
That would explain the rhythmic barks.
The ones that last all day,
The ones that last throughout the dark.

I think he may be a singer,
And he’s in a protest mood.
“Let me out of my crate!”
“Bring me more food!”

Bark, Bark, Bark, Bark.
Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof.
Hooooowwwwlll.
Woof. Woof. Woof. Woof.

Not much rhymes with “woof.”

If my dog were a singer,
I could be very rich.
I just have to translate to English,
And remember he can say “bitch”.

SuperCenter Blues

(Editor’s Note: Recycled from the BJE Facebook page, published there August 5, 2010. This makes it a bonus track for NaPoWriMo 2014.)

BJE said – I don’t want to use any real establishment names, because my lawyer said that would be bad. Let’s just say this was written while watching the crowd at a really big mart where Jessica Simpson would think you bought walls.

SuperCenter Blues
with apologies (and a nod) to Right Said Fred

I’m too sexy for this place
I’ve just seen a face
It was on “Without A Trace”
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy for this mart
I’m filling up my cart
I hope that smell’s a fart
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy but I’m old
I’d never be quite so bold
Say, don’t your ass get cold?
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy for my sight
They’re giving me a fright
They all come out at night
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy for this food
I’m hope that I’m not rude
But that chick there’s a dude
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy for this store
I think I saw a whore
I’m running for the door
Too sexy …

I’m too sexy ’cause I’m white
My receipt’s kept out of sight
The guards just nod “Good night!”
Too sexy …

 

Leaving Early

I’m stuck at the office again.
I was going to leave an hour ago.
One thing after another arose.
A dozen “just one more thing to go.”

Traffic is building up outside.
Each minute here adds ten to the drive.
I might as well just stay here now.
I’ll never make it home alive.

It doesn’t matter your position,
From leader down to clerk.
The only way to leave the office early,
Is to never go to work.

Insomnia

I can’t sleep any more.
I can’t sleep any less.
I’m staring at the ceiling.
My brain is quite the mess.

I traveled the world over.
Time zones changing every day.
Now, I’m feeling my eyelids flutter.
While I’m trying to hit the hay.

I took a nap this afternoon,
That should have done the trick.
I’m awake way past my bedtime,
Listening to my clock tick.

I’m never going to sleep again,
I’m just staying up all night.
It’s time to watch infomercials.
I’ve given up the fight.

I’m in this over my head,
I’m in this thing too deep.
The only cure for insomnia
is a good night’s sleep.