Bobo The Chimp Types - revised (2)
Posted: 16 Sep 2018, 07:56
v3:
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket.
Every few minutes
he pauses, as if critiquing his words--
grunts approvingly.
He drags his knuckles across the keyboard,
screams when the margin bell rings—
leaps atop the typewriter
waving his arms furiously
as if waving a stick
at an approaching leopard.
Then calmly he sits again, pecking
out an incomprehensible
language only Bill, his editor,
understands. Crates of writing
spill out into halls, doorways,
28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks. A couplet
that lacks polish, I answer,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bobo lets out another exultant yelp,
and Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind
v2:
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket.
Every few minutes
he pauses, as if critiquing his words--
grunts approvingly. He drags his knuckles
across the keyboard like a hard rain
sweeping a rooftop.
He yelps when the margin bell rings—
then leaps atop the typewriter
waving his arms furiously
like a conductor urging
his orchestra to rise as applause
explodes through a theater.
The hairs on the backs of his fingers
are black and wiry like Beethoven’s were,
and as he bends again over the keyboard
his big wrists and hands pound
the machine like the maestro himself—
the intensity of a rainmaker
coaxing a deluge down
with his own thunder.
His editor Bill declares Bobo
"the next Thomas Wolfe".
Crates of manuscripts spill into halls,
doorways, 28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks.
A couplet that lacks polish,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bobo lets out another exultant yelp,
and Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind
v1:
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket
as if he were Hugh Hefner.
His editor Bill declares Bobo
"the next Thomas Wolfe".
The chimp is obsessed with secrecy,
his manuscripts of encrypted code
spilling into halls, doorways,
28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks.
A couplet that lacks polish,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket.
Every few minutes
he pauses, as if critiquing his words--
grunts approvingly.
He drags his knuckles across the keyboard,
screams when the margin bell rings—
leaps atop the typewriter
waving his arms furiously
as if waving a stick
at an approaching leopard.
Then calmly he sits again, pecking
out an incomprehensible
language only Bill, his editor,
understands. Crates of writing
spill out into halls, doorways,
28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks. A couplet
that lacks polish, I answer,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bobo lets out another exultant yelp,
and Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind
v2:
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket.
Every few minutes
he pauses, as if critiquing his words--
grunts approvingly. He drags his knuckles
across the keyboard like a hard rain
sweeping a rooftop.
He yelps when the margin bell rings—
then leaps atop the typewriter
waving his arms furiously
like a conductor urging
his orchestra to rise as applause
explodes through a theater.
The hairs on the backs of his fingers
are black and wiry like Beethoven’s were,
and as he bends again over the keyboard
his big wrists and hands pound
the machine like the maestro himself—
the intensity of a rainmaker
coaxing a deluge down
with his own thunder.
His editor Bill declares Bobo
"the next Thomas Wolfe".
Crates of manuscripts spill into halls,
doorways, 28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks.
A couplet that lacks polish,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bobo lets out another exultant yelp,
and Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind
v1:
Bobo The Chimp Types
Bobo types in his smoking jacket
as if he were Hugh Hefner.
His editor Bill declares Bobo
"the next Thomas Wolfe".
The chimp is obsessed with secrecy,
his manuscripts of encrypted code
spilling into halls, doorways,
28th Avenue.
"What have you written today?"
Bill smugly asks.
A couplet that lacks polish,
like a pair of workman's boots.
Bill interrupts: "Good, good for you,
you're making progress...
but Bobo's vocabulary is no longer
an amateur's grunts and sighs...
he has mastered irony, his work
a study of the human condition.
Bobo will be a literary lion soon."
He sucks on his cigar.
"My boy with his rise in the literary world
will make King Kong
look like an underachiever....
a classic American success story,
from humble beginnings....yada yada yada.
Hell, he'll have twenty best sellers out
by the time you have one
thin book of verse ."
Bill slings his heavy paw around my shoulder,
puffing heavily on his panatella,
halos of smoke wobbling skyward
like a steam engine's as it pulls away,
leaving me farther and farther behind