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The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
An Ode by
John Milton Hayes
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.
On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.
He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.
He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.
She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.
When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.
His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
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The Odd Man
There's a Spanish chalet-restaurant north-west of the Walworth Road,
Where they make the finest eggnog anywhere;
There's a fellow at the table by the window all alone,
And on Monday nights you'll catch him seated there.
A chap of little rank, a lowly teller in a bank,
He was chubby, middle-aged and shy as well,
All his days felt just the same; Donald Michael was the name
And the place was called the Casa Annabel.
When he'd sat that night at eight, chasing tacos round the plate,
He'd thought wryly of his impact on the world,
In the forty years of life, he had never had a wife,
To tell the truth, he'd never had a girl!
One final lager quencher then he'd wend his lonely way,
To that tatty, squalid bedsit in the town,
To bed to turn the light off on another faded day,
Then he'd wrap himself up in the eiderdown.
But at length his thoughts were jarred by the strum of a guitar,
That played the strident intro to Granada,
Through the curtain made of net came the clack! of castanets,
And Donald found his heart was beating harder!
Then she burst into the room, like a Spanish rose in bloom,
With her lovely lips a luscious ruby-red,
Stomped both heels then threw some shapes, twirled her long dress like a cape,
And each sensual move she made begged "come to bed!"
She swayed across the floor toward the place where Donald sat,
Her eyes, two burning jewels were locked on his,
And Donald sat there stiffly like a terrified meerkat,
With his head and heart a'flutter, and a'tizz.
Then Donald slowly felt that frozen fear begin to melt,
As he looked into the hot depths of her eyes,
Something strange was now occurring, and he felt his loins a'stirring,
And that tingle now had gone down to both thighs.
As the glow within him grew, all at once for sure he knew
He was the chubby bank teller no more,
Then he flew up from the seat, clapped his hands and stomped both feet,
Now he was Don Miguel the strong, tall toreador!
Their eyes were locked, both bodies arched, he matched her every move,
They generated sexual heat galore,
They strutted, writhed and wriggled, now both totally in the groove,
Ah, he was Don Miguel the toreador!
When the music stopped her eyes stayed locked, her warm hand touched his cheek,
"Wow, that was the best!" she sighed. "Wow!" he growled, and "Whew!
"Now I somehow know that you're the one, my legs have both gone weak!"
And the senorita said, "I feel that too."
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