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THE GREEN EYE OF THE LITTLE YELLOW GOD
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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ANNA TREW - THE SLANTED WEB OF LIES
Anna Trew was forty-seven with a quite extensive girth,
And each night she'd trawl the net to find a date,
But because she was so bothered about other's looks and birth,
She had not yet come to find a perfect mate.
The photo that she posted on the screen was not her own,
And she fibbed about her age by many years,
She lied that she was blonde and that she was twenty-one
And her vibrant breasts could bring a man to tears.
One day when she was trawling, questing for the perfect match,
She found a hunk called Trent who came from Peckham,
From his topless photo, whew! he looked like the perfect catch!
And to crown it all, he grinned like David Beckham.
She started up an online chat to get to know Trent more,
They hit it off like they'd been friends for years,
He said he loved her photo and he'd really like to meet,
That's when her lovelorn heart welled up with tears.
How could she meet that handsome gent,
that toned and trendy god,
When she was, well, a dumpy Susan Boyle?
In truth they were no match at all, nor 'two peas in a pod',
He'd see her and then straight away recoil.
Yet part of her would not let go, although she felt she should,
The need to meet Trent overrode her doubt.
Her head was in a tizzy as she told Trent that she would,
They made a date for Friday to go out.
Trent told her that he'd pick her up, he'd be there in a Jag,
And ring once on her bell at half-past eight.
As she logged off from the web, Anna sighed and lit a fag,
And wryly cursed her age and size and weight.
Oh hell, oh hell, what would she do? Her head was in a whirl;
Today was Wednesday, that left two more days.
Well, she'd get her hair dyed blonde, with some pretty, wavy curls,
And do her best to hide the weight some way.
But when Friday came she told herself, 'I can't go through with this,
'The whole thing's just a whopping great big con,
When he calls I'll say 'my daughter' was his online-chatting Miss,
But she's working late and I am Nell, her Mom.'
Half-eight that night the doorbell rang, her heart beat like a drum.
A man her age and weight stood there and said,
"I called to say that my son Trent's not well and cannot come,
"Wow, but you seem nice, shall we go out instead?"
She saw an old three-wheeler car, there in the road outside,
The weight fell off her shoulders like a cloak,
Well what a joke, he was like her, for he himself had lied!
"Hell, let's go!" she cried, "Hang on, I'll get my coat."
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