Maxwell Reister & Eric Splittgerber
Tuesdays at Midnight
Note from the authors: This poem was created by two friends with a shared passion for Dr. Seuss and the song ‘Shore Leave’ by Tom Waits
Tuesdays at midnight by the Saigon Still
guttersnipes gathered to guzzle their swill
Huddled ‘round barrels of sulphurous heat
this clan lived a life of soot and bare feet
Festooned in trappings, threadbare and stained,
where wire-brush beards were a fashion sustained
This was a tribe of an itinerant sort
who lived beyond reason and were happier for it
Each with a story as long as my arm
which they told with great gusto to keep themselves warm
The first one to speak was a plump little man
with a bellowing voice and a very dark tan
He had on a robe and a silken top hat
and alligator shoes polished with fat
He said to the vagabonds that loitered around
Omar Epps is my name, I tell of a warrior renowned
A champion of brawlers, paragon of his kind
was Henrik the Scrapper, now- more than half blind
He fought for his honor, and for all of our clan
in the Bloodworks Arena, lined with cardboard and sand
A man beyond morals, a beast without shame
his tactics were ruthless and completely insane
With thumbs blunt from use, he’d go for the eyes
he’d leave his foes sightless, a grisly demise
Till one day he fought with Eyeless Eileen
she was blind from birth and had hearing quite keen
When Henrik tried to thumb off her ears
She pirouetted his grasp to the hoots of her peers
She fastened her mouth to his ocular slot
And sucked out his right eye with an audible pop
After giving the orb a chomp and a chew
She spat the remains in his left eye -Pitoo!
Henrik forfeited and Eileen was crowned Chief
And now they are married and never know grief
But not all who fight in the arena are lucky
Most end up dead as a very dead ducky
‘What becomes of the dead?’ you may very well ask
In the business of death, there’s but one for the task
A shadow approached the dim smoldering fire
Adorned in an outfit of eclectic attire
Upon the right foot he wore thirteen socks,
And the boot on his left foot squeaked when he walked
His legs were equipped in a similar fashion
With equal parts style, good taste, and strong passion
A pair of old snow pants and some faded pink shorts
Pin-striped Speedos and a belt made of quartz
He had on a shirt made from manatee leather
a vest of fine mohair, and an old polka dot sweater
Three separate neckties, and each one he bore
Tuesdays at Midnight beautifully dimpled with a perfect Windsor
An eye patch, a monocle, and three pairs of glasses
protected his eyes from hazardous gasses
He was the hobo mortician, and he didn’t shirk
gruesome death was common in Mortimer’s work
If a transient passed, and began to decay
It was Mortimer’s duty to erect the display
He’d rest their remains on a sled from the luge
and practice the art of post-mortem rouge
Using sauce from old pasta, applied in extreme
he created a fl attering waterproof sheen
Whiskers were trimmed and thoroughly washed
using mystical soaps regardless of cost
As payment for labors, the custom was clear,
he took one piece of clothing to add to his gear
Then all of the paupers and princes of panhandlin’
parade past the corpse with chalk and a dandel’in
The chalk is for tracing hieroglyphs on the clothes of the slain
Some meaning ‘Safe travels on the ole gravy train’
Some recommended a good place to dine
Like Pete’s Pickled Pigeons and a bar called The Brine
The blooms would be piled at the feet of the mourned
and the clan would tell stories to keep their hearts warm
END