| Desmond A poem by Joe Fierstos |
| Desmond was a monkey Who wore purple wooden clogs. He thought he was a rabbi, He hung out in synagogues. Every day, he sat alone Until one seeked advice. He tried to give out answers, But instead he gave out lice. Desmond, you're a monkey. You're not a rabbi like you think. Remove your clogs from synagogues, For you begin to stink. Desmond looked up at the mob With sad, grief-stricken eyes. His mouth then opened, as if to speak, He then dropped in some flies. The people then got violent, Got out their sword and gun, And before they could attack the beast, He gets up and starts to run. They're following his every step, They hear the clopping wooden shoes. He runs through allies and back roads You're playing a game that you have to lose. What're you doing, Desmond, My crazy monkey friend? Those purple wooden rabbi clogs Will bring you to your end. He leaps into a dumpster, Where the angry mob goes past. He hops out, and then begins to run Toward Tibet quite fast. He ran and ran and ran and ran At no time ever quitting. Heading toward a place whre Being a monkey is more fitting. Desmond, you're a monkey, You psychopathic momma. 'Cause now you've gone down to Tibet, You think you're the Dalai Lama. |