Oh, the Places You’ll Come!

Oh the hell I missed his birthday by two whole weeks.
Dr. Seuss won’t mind, though — past the deadline I sneaks!

Oh, the Places You’ll Come!
by Zach Bartlett

It’s quite sad when a long-term relationship ends,
moreso from the perspective of one on the mend.
Many questions arise, their answers beyond reach:
for how long were the smiles just barings of teeth?
Was there anything faked, either climax or statement?
Was my crush on the pixie barista too blatant?
Was it me, was it you, were there secrets to tattle;
some ulterior cause to our big butter battle?
But these questions are moot, as we no longer speak
since I’m kicked to the curb down on Mulberry street.

I spent months brooding over the things that I’d miss:
the quite well above-average size of your twits,
and the way your laughter made my self-worth balloon,
and the ease of lifting up your skirts with a broom.
Your attentions had vanished, with what was I left?
Like a plain-bellied Sneetch, I felt wholly bereft.
It felt like my persona vanished with you,
what’s a big-hearted moose like me supposed to do?
Grab single life by the antlers. Now, I run the zoo!
Be my own clever self, stand up tall, shout “fuck this rhyme scheme!”
‘Twas this one realization that cleared up my pains:
I’m not me ’cause of her; I’ve got Seuss in my veins.

My sex life can proceed as though I never knew her.
I can’t lick thirty tigers. . . but maybe a cougar?
So single folks out there: Hi! It’s so nice to meet ya.
Get me drunk, take me home, we’ll go on beyond zebra.
Do you own some green tights? Punny guy that I am,
I would like to describe you as “green legs and damn!
And this king needs no stilts to rise to the occasion,
there’s a wocket in my pocket, if you know what I’m sayin’.
You may be quite a fox, but please take off your socks.
Who the heck wears those things when there’s good boots to knock?
Now, it’s been a few months, so I’m kind of stir-crazy,
I’ve potential for giving you days of head, Mayzie.
We could try fun positions that need some contortin’.
We’ll both hear plenty ooohs if you don’t call me Horton.
I’ll eventually give you whatever you’d please
since I’m not quite a Lorax — I speak for the tease.
But if you like tongue twisters, I won’t be that evil.
Instead, let’s just go at it like. . . tweedle beetles?

You know when tweedle beetles mate, it’s called a tweedle beetle straddle.

And when they mate competitively, it’s a tweedle beetle battle straddle.

And if they play with pain they have a tweedle beetle needle battle straddle.

If their orgy’s on a farmyard, it’s a tweetle beetle cattle needle battle straddle.

Before beetles straddle cattle, in the foreplay to the battle, it’s a tweedle beetle nipple cattle needle battle straddle.

The bedframe on which beetles battle as they straddle tends to rattle, what a hassle as they tweedle beetle nipple cattle needle rattle battle straddle.

If some of them are burlesque dancers and they’re in to S&M? It’s got a title, and I’ll tattle: that’s a tweedle beetle nipple tassle cattle needle paddle rattle battle straddle.

Afterwards there’s pillow talk, and we can tweedle beetle cuddle prattle.


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