Honea Express

“Boys, be quiet,” I said yet again.

For them it would happen, the question was when.

“Close your books,” I added, “and turn off the light.

“Pull up your blanket and shut your eyes tight!”

They ignored every word, they laughed with a cry –

forgetting that Yoda says do and not try

and that doing what I do is how Daddy do it

and if they do less: allowance? They blew it.

I gave them a minute then a second or four

until it was clear they appeared to care more

about playing and talking and ignoring their dad,

crossing the lines between good kids and bad.

I walked the walk of knock that shit off

I got to their door and walked in with a cough

that announced I was there to make it all stop

that announced I was mad, their big angry pop.

The floor it was wet, the water glass empty

they hooted, they hollered and oh, how it tempt me

to smack on their butts until their cracks doubled

but spanking, in theory, leaves me puzzled and troubled.

So I gave them a lecture. It was fierce. I was stern.

Until it sunk in, they had lessons to learn.

The rules of bedtime are set strict like a diet;

if you’re gonna be sneaky, for Pete’s sake be quiet.

And now a dramatic reading by the author:
If They Ran the Circus I’d be Dead by Now

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