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Tales from real life |
This was my entry for the February 2025 round of the The Humorous Poetry Contest ![]() Knock, Knock, Madame “Knock, knock,” I cry in urgent pain. “Who could it be?” you ask again. “Tis I, madame, let me explain.” “Begone, strange man, you plead in vain.” “I do not wish to be a bore, but lift the latch, I must implore.” “I’ve opened once, so why do more?” “Because my damn foot’s in the door!” When I was a kid, I would never have dropped an f-bomb. My mom would have beat my butt with her yardstick and then washed my mouth out with Ivory soap (99 44⁄100% pure). To be fair, she was actually much more kind than strict. You could count the number of times she used the yardstick on one hand and the soap sessions on the other. It must have been effective, though, because I rarely swear or use rough language. Beyond an occasional dammit when I stub a toe or hammer my thumb, of course. Nobody's perfect, and even 99 44⁄100% pure is a tall order. My generally polite usage is especially surprising because my dad was a real pro with vulgar invective. He learned early from cowboys, miners, and loggers, then honed his skill with a four-year stint in the navy. Dad could swear fluently and at length without being boring or repetitive (unlike most stand-up comics). But that was his outside voice. He (mostly) refrained when he was in the house or with his family in public. None of us kids ever even tried to match his example. We thought it was clever to get away with saying things like 'dam water' or 'hell-o operator'. Oh, days of innocence lost! One opportunity for childish hilarity was this knock, knock joke: Knock, knock! Who's there? Madame Madame who? My damn foot's stuck in the door! My poem is intended as an homage to that old joke. I agree that the last line is strained, but I decided to remain true to the way I remember the punchline. |