Curiouser and Curiouser

HH-1: What Is it Called?

Study the poem 'Haddock's Eyes' or is it The Aged, Aged Man' or perhaps it was actually 'Ways and Means' or ah yes! 'A-Sitting on a Gate'! Whatever the case, write your own stanza in the same style. (minimum three stanzas).

The other day, meandering--
at least, so I recall,
I met a rather handsome man
a-propping up a wall.
“Who are you, handsome man,” I said,
“Well met, and how are you?”
I didn't want to know, of course,
but didn't mind the view.

He said, “I look for bumblebees
that dance upon the air,
and follow them from flower to hive
and take the honey there,
and bottle it in pints and quarts
to sell upon the street,
oh will you buy, oh maiden fair,
some honey—clover sweet?”

But I was thinking of his eyelids
framed with lashes long,
and wondering why my mascara
wasn't near as strong.
So, having no reply to give
to what the man had said,
I cried, “Please tell me what you do?”
and felt like an airhead.

His deep, deep voice took up the tale:
“I know a vacant spot
where I may cultivate tin cans
--as in a garden plot.
And thence I gather them to make
an electronic fense--
yet when I sold it, I earned only
fifty-seven cents.”

But I was thinking of his chest
and why it was so trim,
and where he exercised himself
to remain so slim--
I shook my head to drain my thoughts
like water from a sieve,
“Come, tell me what you do,” I said,
“And how is it you live?”

He said, “I hunt for acorn tops
along the city streets,
and work all night to make them into
pairs of baseball cleats,
and these I do not try to sell
for copper or for gold--
just give me paper money, please,
just five a pair, and sold.

“I sometimes dig for chocolate cakes
or set out snares for gnomes,
I sometimes search on putting greens
for tiny, golf ball homes,
and that is how,” he winked at me,
“I live here on the street.
But you, my dearest maiden fair,
look good enough to eat.”

I heard him then, for at his words
my mouth grew very dry
because I couldn't tell if I should
thank him or should fly.
But from my purse I pulled a ten
and my pepper spray,
and thanked him kindly for his words
and wished him a good day.

And now, if e'er by chance I find
a tangle in my hair,
or run into an open door
and bruise my nose and swear,

Or if I with my naked feet
find Legos in the hall,
I laugh, and think of that fine day
when I met him, on my way
whose hair was blonde, whose eyes were gray,
whose face could lead a nun astray,
whose voice enthralled me, straightaway
with all those muscles on display
who drew me in, like child's play
who changed and filled me with dismay
and said things I wished him to unsay
alone in that dark alleyway
that time I met him, (what a day)
a-propping up the wall.

line count: 82