Excerpt for 'Twas the Night Before Solstice (Southern Oregon Style) by Celeste Drolle, available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

Twas the Night Before Solstice

Southern Oregon Style


by

Celeste Drolle


VeraVoz LLC Edition

Published by Smashwords, Inc.


Copyright © 2011 by Celeste Drolle and VeraVoz, LLC


All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, this publication may be reproduced, lent, copied, borrowed, transmitted and given away in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) whatsoever; and permission to do so is hereby granted by the copyright holder, subject to the Smashwords Edition License Notes, below. Under no circumstances is this publication to be sold, nor is it to be included in any other publication that is offered for sale unless prior written permission is granted by the copyright holder.


This poem is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of any products referenced herein, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.


Smashwords Edition License Notes.


This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, you may do so; however all opening notes and the closing reference notes must be left attached. Thank you for respecting the author's work.




TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE SOLSTICE –

SOUTHERN OREGON STYLE


Twas the Night Before Solstice, and there in my trailer

The ol' lady was bombed — My hash hadn’t failed 'er.

Our harvest we cured by the fireplace with care,

In hopes our Distributor soon would be there.


The brats were all stoned in their snug little beds,

Where cannabis dreams made a mess of their heads.

The ol' lady and me, too zonked to get lewd,

For the sake of old times, went to bed in the nude.


When our chained-up rottweiler made such a commotion,

That I wondered, just what could bring on such emotions?

I raced to window, though lacking my britches,

(To watch Fido work just puts me in stitches.)


The mud yard, bright klieg lights and thousand-volt fence

Made me proud how I toiled for my dollars and cents.
Then my pupils dilated, 'cuz Lord what a stumper!

Eight snarling pit bulls hauled a Jeep by the bumper.


With a little old driver so wasted and thin

He resembled a skull that was learnin' to grin.

Still faster than narcs his fierce puppies they came.

To a mean hip-hop beat, he sang out their names:


"Now Tugger! Now Mugger! Now Shredder and Chewer!

On Yapper! On Snapper! On Snarler and Spewer!

I'm high as the stars! I'm high as the moon!

I've shredded my brain like a bloodhound shreds 'coons!"


Like fine weed that's rendered to resinous mash,

In the bowl of a water pipe greets you as hash,

So they rose to the roof where they crashed on the shingles:

The pit bulls, the Jeep and my buyer, Kris Kringle.


And then, through my brain fog, I heard on the roof,

Quite a yippin' and nippin'’— yup, the ol' fart had goofed.

Whilst I cleared up my head, feelin' quite paranoid,

Down the stovepipe he fell, like a Hitchcock-flick boid.


He was robed all in hemp from his beard to his toes,

Tattoos graced his forehead — a piercing, his nose.

A bagful of cash he had slung on his back,

From dealing in cannabis, mushrooms and crack.


His eyes how they bulged, his breath how it stank.

Like a tropical fish belly-up in the tank.

His toothless old mouth and his sagging old lips

Drooled on a beard hanging limp to his hips.


The stem of a bong was clenched tight in his gums,

While vibrations of methedrine palsied his thumbs.

A rip in his robe displayed half his ass.

But so long as he pays… hell, he hardly needs class.


He was scrawny and skinny, a likely old wraith,

To scare Cath'lics to Mass, just to shore up their faith.

The pus in his eyes and the mange on his dome,

Made me covet some bleach to scour out my home.


He mumbled a mantra 'bout right-minded work,

Then paid with a check — Do I dare trust this jerk?

Then placing the bong in his cavernous nose,

He sniffed till his brain up the chimney-flue rose.


He sprang to his Jeep, to his pups gave a whistle.

(My rottweiler they'd munched, then spat out the gristle).

And he cackled in glee as he drove through the mud:

"Come along boys and girls, 'cuz I'm re-stocked with bud."

____________________


(Celeste Drolle is the evil twin and adult-humor pen name for Zacharias O’Bryan. Celeste Drolle’s other publications include the sci-fi short-story spoof Pet Names, available for free. Zacharias O’Bryan’s publications include the eco-spiritual sci-fi fantasy Spirit Thorn, for sale at US$2.99 a/o 9 December 2011 . Both are available at most ebook dealers worldwide, including the dealer from whom this poem was downloaded. You may give, lend and forward this poem to other readers, provided this paragraph and the opening copyright information remains attached. Celeste and Zacharias thank you for your visit.)



Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-5 show above.)