I met her in a bar.
Her drink was almost done.
Irony was hoping
that I would be the one.
So I slide upon the stool
and I say my pick-up line.
I say “Baby how ya doin’?”"
She says “Baby, you’re fine!”
Well wow, whoa,
it was Halloween!
Who would’ve thought
she’d be taking out my spleen?
Invites me to her room,
gives my knee a little rub…
Next thing I know,
I’m on ice in her tub!
Well, I woke up to a phone
set atop a little note.
It said, “The market’s good!”
and that was all she wrote!
So I’m dialing 911
and I’m trying not to bleed…
I’m thinking economics:
“Supply and Need.”
Well wow, whoa,
her eyes were really green!
Who would’ve thought
she’d bring her own morphine?
She’s playing with her hair,
I’m checking out her rack…
Next thing I know,
I’ve got stitches in my back!
Now I walk through the park
and my eyes dart around…
Someone needs a transplant,
and I’m the guy he found!
So he sent out an angel
with her hot, hot breath…
But little did I know
she’s the Angel of Death!
Well, wow, wow, wow!
She was firm and lean!
The sweat on my forehead
made a real fine sheen!
But through the operation
when she took me apart,
she kind of left me thankful
that no one needs a heart…
[Editor's Note: The original version of this poem was originally published in Bug: Deaf Identity and Internal Revolution (2007).]
