Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Ars Poetica Completa

Caryn Begeschke

5000 words. Exactly. -- Impressive I know.

The Prologue 

In the pages to follow you fill find a body of working containing nothing ordinary and 

everything extraordinary. Allow me to give you a little preview, a preface if you will, of 

what you are about to encounter. Brace yourself. Hold on to something. A chair perhaps. 

Your hat. The table if its near. Clench you teeth and grasp tight. Till your knuckles turn 

white. Because you are about to embark on something: “magnificent, opulent, 

tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan, bedazzlement, a sensual ravishment. It will be: 

Spectacular Spectacular. Spectacular, Spectacular. No words in the vernacular. Can't 

describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment. You must agree, that's 

excellent,” (Moulin Rouge! 2001) 

Let us begin at the beginning. 

You will see something familiar.  It is my Ode to Lysol. I’ve found my paradigm shifted 

while writing this piece. You see here, reader, that my original intention was to write 

about something that was NOT poetry. I could not use something full of imagery, or 

common to the masses. It had to be different. Ahhhhh. As I looked around my living 

room for some inspiration. COUCH! a couch is not a poem. Or poetry. Ah, no. A couch is 

a poem and poetry. it absolutely is. The people who sit on the couch tell a story. A poem. 

So to those who lay on it. Those who love on it. The crumbs and change that fell 

between it. This will absolutely not prove my point -- I said. A couch, is probably the 

most fantastic poetry ever written. 

What else. Kitchen, no. Door, oh absolutely not. Carpet, no, Table, no. Goodness my 

why is everything in this apartment poetry I screamed [internally].  So I wandered to the 

pantry. Where I keep food for cooking and supplies for cleaning. A toxic idea in 

retrospect. I went there, to search for more inspiration. Tomato paste, no. Styrofoam 

plate, no. Tea, no. Medicine, No. AH! LYSOL! YES! There is absolutely no way Lysol 

can be poetry. Ah-ha! Fantastic. I have my inspiration. 

As you will see, or have seen, in the 1200 word Ode To My Murderous Home 

Disinfectant, my hypothesis, theory even, was proven wrong and Lysol, much to my 

dismay, is absolutely poetry, as much, if not more, than everything else in the world is. 

Subsequent to this piece proven wrong by pushing and purging of words and a 

paradigm shift is something else rather lovely. My Emily Dickinson Cento. 

What a challenge this was. OH yes. Challenging like a Rubix cube or playing Scrabble 

against Dani Fox. 

My Emily Dickinson Cento is divided into pieces, ones that are sensical rather than 

being one long superfluous mess. Perhaps my favorite part of that cento is a section 

titled: Life Cycle.  Read it. Enjoy it. It includes, naturally, lines from Dickinsons work, 

some lyrics from MC (Mariah Carey AND Miley Cyrus) as well as a few words of my 

own. This alone did not fill your OH SO Generous word requirement. So I continued 

through the Index of first lines which laid out some poetry quite nicely for me, though I 

do wish I had a correspondence. No wait, wrong word, concordance, to complete this 


Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Continuing with this Cento theme, is my Lorine Niedecker Cento which, is, I must say, 

my favorite most fascinating fantastic piece.  However, I must warn you, reader, that 

there are more of my words that Lorine’s in this cento, however. Nonetheless. It is 

fantastic. Let us talk about it a little. So after pulling random lines out of her collection. 

One per line, front and back, of a sheet of yellow legal pad paper, written in green pen, I 

decided to go through and pick out the ones that fit best together and tell some sort of 

story. And that is when the fantastic idea came to me. The setting: Just after dusk, in the 

woods, opens up this piece and well. I refuse to give it away. Read the rest. 

Let’s talk about centos a little. Cento. I thought this meant 100. clearly I was wrong. 

Century. 100 Years. Centipede. 100 Legs. Cent. 1/100 of a dollar. Cento. A literary work 

comprised of quotations from other authors. Nope. No correlation. And you, were not 

ever kind enough, to say, oh cento is so much like a hundred that is how many words 

you need to use. no no. how about 6 cento. 3 cento. Thats fine. I took your advise. I 

lowered my standards. And it is rather amazing how quickly the words came to me after 

that.  They just kept coming. 

Back to the Ars Poetica. 

The next section I titled: A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness That May or May 

Not be Considered Poetry. 

Whenever strange things would come into my brain, I would write them down and run 

with it. Or, in the case of “A Fiction Fallacy,” the first piece of this section, I sat down with 

the intention to write something brilliant and strange, create something comparable to 

Edson or Knox, and what I ended up with was something much better, and nearly 

effortless, except being a scribe to fast talking eight-year-old was not my simplest take.  

But, I did not have to create at all. I just recorded. And well, it was something more 

compareable to Counter Daemons, in that only I, the author, and Jake Castiglia (the 

computer if you will) can ever understand.  Interpret it you may try. But you WILL fail. 

The next piece in this collection is something titled “Advice from Below” which is the 

personification of feet. The feet are talking to their owner, telling them all the things they 

wish their owner knew about their tragic life.  It is rather insightful and anyone can take 

advise from it.  I hope they do. 

Following “Advice from Below” is “An Insomniac Inspiration.”  I sometimes have trouble 

sleeping and I found that I could do two things with this time I wish were spent sleeping.  

Write for this class. OR, watch infomercials.  I decided it would be best to write but only 

after having enough of the Sham Wow man tell me all about that fantastic chopper that 

slices and dices my vegetables effortlessly.  Why is he wearing that headset I wonder? 

I also found inspiration for strangeness in our class being just betwixt (I have an affinity 

for that word) two months. May and June. So, I wrote about it. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

And Finally. The pinnacle of the piece, the strangest of the strange (not really): 

something i posed on Craigslist expressing my desire for elf traps. 

Premature Post: A first attempt at estranged greatness. 

Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant. 


Alkyl (50% C14 40% C12 10% C16) 

dimethyl benzyl ammonium saccharinate ... .10% 

Ethanol......................................................... 58% 

OTHER INGREDIENTS: ............................. 41.90% 

TOTAL:......................................................... 100% 


Half of what makes up this product is another ingredient? 

But it is not active? 

What is it? 

Thank you for adding them up for me Lysol bottle. 

My Lysol is a Murder. 




What beautiful alliteration Lysol, maybe you are a poem after all. 

My Lysol carries the scent of an Early Morning Breeze at a chemical plant. 

Which each spray my sensitive noses wafts in a scent that leaves me nostalgic. 

It brings me to a place where I would wake up, in the Early Morning, and stick my head 

out the window to catch the cleansing Breeze. 

The Breeze like a power-washer coming through to freshen and clean everything. 

Oh no. That was not a freshening power-washer. 

That was a power-washer that KILLS. 

It is a murderer. 

A Breeze that takes your breath away. Essentually. It drowns you. 

Watch out Staphyloccocus aureus you are no match for my Early Morning Breeze. 

You better hide Enterobacter aerogenes on hard non-porous surface. Because 99.9% of 

you are goners. Total. Goners. 

Oh you pleasently colored can.  You remind me of the Crayola, Purple Mountain 

Magesty.  It really is my favorite crayon, such a lovely shade of purple. 


Like a bruise. 

Or a dead body. 

Laying with a toe tag in the morgue. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Lysol reminds me of garbage cans.  That is where my mom used to spray it as a child. 

This giant blue, sometimes brown, slightly rusted home for waste, is not poetry. 

This filthy vermin infested garbage receptacle.  Oh no. 

I was taking my trash out one day. I flung it high and heavy over the metal walls. 

Clank, crash, rustle, break, OW. 

“Hey watch where your throwing that.” 

“Oh Iʼm sorry.” 

And that is when I met him. 

The poet that lived in my dumpster. 

Iʼve seen him often collecting cans and sorting recyclbles.  

Every homeless man has a story.  

Usually, they lose their house in a bank foreclosure.  

They gamble their lives away on a Harrahʼs boat.  

They drink their lives away thanks largely impart to Heather who hands him another 

glass, divorce papers, another bottle, another, a DUI. 


Thats who live in the dumpsters. 

Those, who have lost. 

Thats what I thought of the poet in my dumpster when I met him.  I thought he was a 


Hes cleverly obvious and wears small round eyeglasses.  Hes nose slopes like a slide 

at a summer fair and if his eyeglass happen to enjoy the ride they never make it past his 

colar bone where they are collected safely.  Because of his eye glass catchers, that 

form a nice bifocal necklace.  It will never be part of the Tiffanyʼs collection, but it is nice, 

for a poet. 

I sat there for a minute unsure of how to respond to this barbaric being, so gentle and 

diligent in his search for buried treasure.  Then, he climbed out. Two bags in his hands. 

He spotted something shiny.  He took a few step towards the mystical metal and bent 

down close to examine it.  A penny. Tails side up. 

I watch him as he lifts the penny, flips it over, and stands again. 

He turns to me and says, “its your lucky day” and shifts his eyes to Lincolnʼs profile that 

resides cordially on a copper, and then he looks back at me.  


Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

When I think of things that are dirty.  Just down right filthy.  Full of germs not visible to 

the human eye.  I think of currency. 

Touch. Touch. Touch. Tap. Tell. Pass. Borrow. Play. 


From the bank teller, to the client. To the woman in the drive through at McDonalds. 

Given as change to the car behind her. An allowance for her 10 year old son. To George 

at the candy story down the block for teeth rotting treats.  To the 14 year employee who 

works under the table.  To the senior who bought him cigarettes.  To dealer who gave 

him cocaine.  To the prostitute for her services. To the clinic for her screening.  And back 

to the bank. 

Filthy money is.  

Money is poetry. 

Poetry is the story that money tells through its travels. 

Its what everyone notices but no one watches. 

Its blue. 

Poetry is a small child.  Observant.  Eager.  

There are a few children I can say Iʼm incredibly fond of.  Bradley, and Anthony.  They 

are twins I nanny for while their parents work their average jobs. 

They are very curious and funny in the way they view the world. 

Its big. Its kind. Its full of fun and answers. 

As we are driving down a country road they notice a horse, standing with a cow and 

some other live stock. 

The horse is lonely claims the boys. 

Horses are not friends with cows, or ducks. 

Horses, are friends with horses. 

There are no other horses for this horse to play with. 

He has no friends. 

This horse is so sad. 

He, is lonely. 

I wish I could be friends with him. 

I wish I could be a horse. 

That, is poetry.  The working observation of four-year-old twins. 

Children are the best poets. 

They dont process anything. 

They observe, and then report. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

There is no other influence except their tiny frame of reference. 



Beautiful none the less. 

Poetry is not Lysol Home Disinfectant. 

It does not KILL or contain OTHER INGREDIENTS. 

Or does it? 

My Lysol Home Disinfectant does bring up a great point. 

It contains this they are not simply defined. 

It gives an outline. 

But not instructions. 

My Lysol is colorful and vibrant. 

It contains imagery, alliteration.  

It kills and it saves lives. 

It makes things fresh, and new again. 

It makes you look at things differently. 

Its a perfume that Whitman smells. 

It is a line of a patriotic song. 

Yes.  It certainly is a poem.  All of the things add to 100%.  Even if they are other, and 

you dont quite know what they are.  Maybe you cannot pronounce it.  Or define it.  But it 

serves a purpose.  Isnʼt that just what a poem does.  I certainly believe so. It notices 

something in the world and magnifies it. Like an amoeba. 

Swim swim amoeba.  You lucky .01% that survived the death of your viral bacteria 

roommates.  They died a painful chemic death.  They are in a better place now.  A place 

with white flowers that smells lovely. Like a breeze, in the early morning. 

Emily Dickinson Cento 


To see the summer sky, 1472 

To tell the beauty would decrease, 1700 

To the bright east she flies, 1573 

To their apartment deep, 1701 

To this world she returned, 830 

To try to speak and miss the way, 1617 

To undertake is to acheive, 1070 

To venerate the simple days, 57 

To wait an hour is long, 781 

To whom the mornings stand for nights, 1095 

Today or this noon, 1702 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

“Tomorrow” -- whose location, 1367 

My Savior, My God 

God is a distant, stately lover, 357 

God is indeed a jealous God, 1719 

God made a little gentian, 442 

God made no act without a cause, 1163 

God permits industrious angels, 231 

Going to heaven, 79 

Going to Him! 494 

Good morning, midnight, 425 

Good night, because we must, 114 

Good night! Which put the candle out, 259 

Life Cycle 

[How soft a caterpillar steps, 1498] 

“Caterpillar in the tree, how you wonder who youʼll be 

[How soft this prison is, 1498] 

you cant go far but you can always dream. 

[Cacoon above! Cacoon below! 129] 

Dont, you worry hold on tight. 

I promise soon, that there will come a day. 

[From cacoon forth a butterfly 354] 

Butterfly, fly away.”1 

“I must open my hands and watch you rise. 

Spread your wings and fly. 


[Morning is due to all, 1577] 

[Dew is freshest in the grass, 1097] 

[Had I known that the first was the last, 1720] 

[Had I not seen the sun, 1233] 

[Had I not this, or this, I said 904] 

[Had I presumed to hope. 522] 

[Had this one day not been, 1253] 

[Had we known the ton she bore, 1124] 

[Had we our senses, 1284] 

We could have saved her. 

[Death sets a thing significant, 360] 

[Death warrents are supposed to be, 1375] 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke 


 Butterfly Fly Away, Miley Cyrus 


 Butterfly, Mariah Carey

[Deaths waylaying not the sharpest, 1296] 

[Death is a dialogue, 976] 

[Death is like the insect, 1716] 

[Death is a supple suitor, 1445] 

[Death is potential to that man, 548] 

[Death leaves us homesick, 935] 

Death, was her fate. 

[How far is it to heaven, 929] 

[How firm eternity must look, 1499] 

She prayed. 

[“Faith” is a fine intervention, 185] 

[Faith is a pierless bridge] 

She drowned. 

[Heavenly Father, take to thee, 1461] 

[Come slowly Eden, 185] 

[Heaven has different signs to me, 1575] 

[Heaven, is so far of the mind, 370] 

[Heaven is what I cannot not reach, 239] 

[Except the heaven, had come so near, 472] 

[Except to heaven, she is nought. 154] 

[I went to heaven, 374.] 


Her breast is fit for pearls, 84 

His bill an auger is, 1034 

Her face was in a bed of hair, 1722 

His bill clasped, his eye forsook, 1102 

Her final summer was it, 795 

His cheek is his biographer, 1460 

Her losses make our gains ashamed, 1562 

His feet are shod with gauze, 916 

Her smile shaped like ohter smiles, 514 

His heart was darker than the starless night, 1378 

Her spirit rose to such a height, 1486 

His little hearse like figure, 1522 

Her grace is all she has, 810 

His mansion in the pool, 1379 

Her sovereign people, 1139 

His mind like fabrics of the east, 1446 

Her sweet weight on my heart at night, 518 

His mind of a man a secret makes, 1663 

Her little parasol to lift, 1038 

His oriental heresies, 1526 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

Her last poems, 312 

His voice decrepit was with joy, 1476 


I am afraid to own a body, 1090 

I am ashamed, I hide, 473 

I am alive I guess, 470 

I asked no other thing, 621. 

I came to buy a smile today, 223 

I cannot buy it, tis not sold, 840 

I bring an unaccustomed wine, 132 

I could not drink it, sweet. 818. 

Lorine Niedecker Cento 

if only I was able [to save the sun, 53] 

[i face the east and the windʼs in my mouth, 97] 

the slowing ((speeding)) traffic light [disappearing, 147] beneath the horizon. 


with the absence of alabaster. 

[came night, 117] 

[lets play a game, 127] 

whispered words my [big blind ears, 107] did not hear 

to my back two fingers [shaped like a gun, 128] 

[a monster, 103] 


as i wander this wood at night. 

i [stop to eat people, 7] 

[isnʼt it funny? 141] 

i come across [lonely women, 115] 

strange, desperate women. 

women wasted. wasting away. 

sheʼd sell anything she got her hands on. 

[sheʼd sell dirt, 

sheʼd sell your eyes friend in deep grief, 108] 

he circles me. 

iʼm panting. 

there is nothing more appetizing then a wo[mans sweet breath, 104] 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

with a machete he [breaks my hand, 54] away from the bone 

he raises my mangled mano to his lips and samples my flesh and sips crimson as it 

bursts from broken veins. 

[youʼre my type, youʼre okay. 148] 

i feel no pain aside from the [mosquitoes bite,147]ing my ankles. 

eat what [i give to you, 137] 

i clench my jaw tight. 

would you prefer it better if i served you on platter 

[and gave you lettuce,141]? 

he forced open my mouth 

like you would force [open a door, 145] 

with a crow bar. 

with nails like claws he pulls skin away from bone. 

he shoves it into my mouth. 

with hand crowning cranium and 

another clutching my chin. 

i manually chew. 

under his control. 

a self-consuming cannibal 

[i donʼt spit. 132] 

A Collection of Unprompted Strangeness 

That May or May Not be Considered Poetry. 

A Fiction Fallacy 


is so sleepy 

and grumpy 

his is fat. he eats alot. 

if we cant do 

pagolime thats 

bad news 

may paragolime can do 

thats giritina 

he is in the reverse world 

i had heathen 

and traded him 

for a level x 

i used to have a legendary 

a dragonita 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke


i can play one player 

but 2 player 

i split the deck 

i be the player and computer 

i just do this 

get it? 

plowsien or something 

i catch them 

all of them. 

this awkward 8 year old 

sifts through the sunflower deck 

making awkward songs 

from his mouth 

maybe i can do 

story mode 

sift sift sift 

this room smells like 

wet dirty 

dog laundry 

he mumbles to himself in audibly. 

a very long time ago 

when guarantino 

was in reverse world 

i think i told you before 

now hes in the real world 

what theres a message 

whats he saying 

youʼll never know 


comes from his mouth 

ppppssshhhh ccrrrrrr 

reverse world is mine 

if it can be ruled i sugest. 

he crashes into my foot 

sorry. i used you. 

ppppffff sshhhhh 



roarrr shh ooofffeeemmm 

HA! take that! 

he makes what would resemble static with his hands 

how do i get out 

be careful down there 

oh great 


Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke


oh be hack 


i dont have showmen 

iʼm going to pretend 

you dont have to do that either 

show man 

how was it 



he gargles and hisses the saliva and air in his mouth 

this is the real world 


its me 


where are you 

from water world 

theres no water there 

sorry its not raining 

the fighting game 

sorry thats my faut 

it came with the thunder 

oh my bad 

hands on fight 

happpooossskkk kapooosshh 

i think you lied 

iʼm not a very good owinker 


here we are 

bubble world 

i hate using this 

turn it off 

turn it off 

i should be a goner 

iʼm a bubble 


popp popp pop po po popopopopop AHHHHH 


why you like it 


ahh thunderbold! 

chew chew chew 

righhhttt chew AHHH 


heavy breath. 

i am. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

look at this 













nothing nothing 








Advice From Below 

please take care of me. 

i know i did not come with a users manual 

but you learned how to use me at a young age.  

it started out small and innocent enough. 

there was a lot of stumbling on my part -- i was wasnʼt ready.  

but together we got the hang of it, you and i.  

from there on out it was history. 

you used to walk around outside with no shoes on, 

in the itchy grass or on the hot hot sand.  

i guess that was much better than the confinement of socks and shoes. 

 it is so dark in there. 

hot, very hot, and sweaty. 

i couldnt even see where i was going. or what was coming. 

you would much rather spend money on clothes 

who cares about me really? 

go ahead step in that puddle. 


i mean really? 

there is nothing fun about jumping in a puddle. 

iʼm wet, 



Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

have you ever heard of rainboots? 

i mean sure they arent the most fashionable thing 

but iʼm only lookin out for number one, 

and my buddy over there number two. 

you up there, 

you with the eyes, 

just watch where you are going.  

i know we are all supposed to work together 

and be a team here 

but sometimes you just walk into all sorts of trouble, 

like the said puddle. 

how was i supposed to see? 

i cant really even warn you either. 

i just get the aftermath. which is never fun.  

and you know what, 

i know that there are two of us 

but i really feel discriminated against. 

so your right handed, fine. 

and your right brained, fine. 

but with us down here 

its a little different than with your hands up there. 

we are a team.  

and if one of us is missing, 

well then you are a gimp. 

which happened quite of a few times 

because of your discrimination.  

admit it you take better care of right.  

there is no logical explanation that i am the one you swing full force into soccer balls. 

you made a spectacle of your poor peds 

by turning them into harry hobbit feet, 

how embarrassing. 

An Insomniac Inspiration 


The color of this blank document in front of me. 

The color of my skin. 

The outermost part of my eye. 

Fresh paint 

A picket fence. 

The color that is most pure 

Or the absence of color all together. 

Fresh linens 

Egyptian cotton sheets 

When I find my mind racing in the middle of the night its oftentimes hard to keep up with 

the pace. Thoughts bouncing off the walls of my brain to quickly for me to keep track or 

catch up.  It is during this late hour, when I desperately want to find my sanity and get in a 

few hours of sleep, that I try, try, try to get my mind to focus on one thing. White. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke


Clean. Pure. Simple. Absent. White. 


What is it that I'm keeping my mind from? 

What exactly am I trying to numb? 


I choose my words wisely.  They flow eloquently from a well rehearsed articulate tongue.  

My words more often than not are my own.  Sometimes, though, a song can speak exactly 

what my heart strings are playing.  Through all of this soul searching I often wonder.. WHY? 

What is this all for?  I thought I had found my passion, but that fire was extinguished with a 

cold glass of what I wish was water and a slap in the face. 


An instant. 

A moment. 

A second. 

A thought. 

It can change EVERYTHING. 


I take advantage of that fact of life. Because for this moment I am typing on this expensive 

mac, in my own room, in a beautiful house.  In front of me is a 300 dollar phone. A 

prescription bottle cap and a spilled bottle of pills. To my left, my sunglasses that I couldn’t 

afford while summering in California, a statement for my Von Maur credit card, and, 

ironically, a gratitude rock. 


I want to find the rock in my life. 

Grasp it. 

And learn to be a little more grateful. 


I want to learn love. 

One that is unconditional. 

One that is selfless. 

Love in its purest form. 


And for giving. 

For others 

And for myself. 


My eyelids are beginning to feel the effects of that antihistamine. 

And as they close, instead of darkness, I see white. 

An Ode To the Passing of May and The Welcoming of June 


im free. 

not for long. 

may term 

sings a new song. 


peace be with you 


your days be merry and bright 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke


i go to the bathroom 


i might. 

in may 

the sunshines 

and there is memorial. 

in may freedom rings. 

unless your taking summer school. 

in may 

the girls go wild 

and tan in bikinis on the quad. 

in may 

i think of tulips 

and swimming pools. 

last may 

i went to romania 

in may i found God 

and met Jesus 

and was saved 

and baptized. 

may is really the time to start over 

if you ask me 

they tell me the first day of spring 

is in march, i think 

but the season really changes, in may. 

may my 



to you. 

iʼm an english major 

dont mix up can and may 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

i do not know anyone with a birthday in may 

except for my rich aunt carol. 

and my friend cara. 

and the 5th of may. 

cinco de mayo. 

i love mexican food. 


i like june. 

i like the number 6. 

i like the way june feels. 

it never gets too hot. 

usually in june, 

i catch a plane to california. 

but this june i will be here 

living in bloomington normal. 

june is kelly kleins birthday 

she will turn 21, again. 

last year she faked her birthday 

and had a party with all her friends. 

in june beth and randy will get married 

and iʼm invited to the wedding. 

iʼll wear a pretty dress 

and hopefully a handsome date on my arm. 

i hope he says yes. 

when june comes 

iʼm sure iʼll have memories 

missing being in california 

the beginning of camp season is always my favorite. 

june is beautiful and awkward. 

i want to love 

like johnny and 


Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

whats a june bug? 

is it their birthday? 

crystals birthday is in june too. 

the same day of the bales wedding. 

shes getting old. 

in june i will sit on my deck. 

and drink lemonade. 

and play my guitar. 

strum strum strum 

sing a little 

country song. 

sing sing sing 

all day long. 

in june i will wear flipflops 

and tanktops 

and short shorts 

iʼll swear sunscreen 

and sun glasses 

and the weather will be 

nice enough to turn the air on. 


elves are a greater pests than you could possibly imagine. they play incredulous tricks and cause 

household destruction such as the following: 

wearing all of our clothes and then leaving them on the floor. 

hiding things, such as keys, cellphones, sunglasses and money. 

eating all of our food. 

dirtying ALL of the dishes and leaving them in the sink. 

leaving lights on. 

making messes in our bathrooms. 

stealing socks (usually one from a pair), probably to be used as a sleeping bag. 

Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

these little elves are very sneaky and love to get on our nerves! as soon as the apartment is clean 

is when they begin their mischief. within hours of cleaning our rooms or doing laundry/dishes, 

they being their destruction. 

we do not need an exterminator, rather we would like to trap the elves in a safe way. we need a 

good system because they probably were trained at hogwarts in efficiency and posses the much 

sought after invisibility cloak. probably stolen from harry. those dirty thieves. anyways. we 

believe that if caught these elves are trainable... we’d like to use them to fold laundry, do dishes, 

clean the living room and bathroom, and our bedrooms. 

at first we thought it could be trolls causing all of this mischief. that would explain the mess in 

the bathroom, and use of our hair products. then we realized that trolls wouldn't be the ones 

wearing our clothes and messing up our laundry.. they generally just go topless with their 

occasional belly button ring, and to have that kind of confidence they probably aren’t eating our 


so they are absolutely elves. assumably on the off season from the n.p. we do believe that if 

caught, not only can they be trained -- they can be bred. so upon catching the little scoundrels 

and teaching them how to keep house, we will sell their offspring to those in need of a tidy home 

and cant afford merry maids. 


Word Count: 5000

 Caryn L Begeschke

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