It was perfectly apropos that the barely known poet, Clifton Frost, no relation, was found dead at his writing desk face down on a sole sheet of paper, pen in hand. Days before, he had made a formal announcement, a drunken boast at the neighborhood bar that he was abandoning post-modernism for the much more respected classical form. No one really understood what he meant, nor did they care.
A mash up medley based on a four chord song written by Alicia Keys sprinkled with so many song bytes that fit within the structure. For those taking notes, E, B, C# minor, and A.
Now a mash up.
You could tell that “Shoeless” Joe Jackson was in deep cover. He had shoes and pants on. It is a wonder why pant-less was not part of his nickname. It probably messed up the cadence and assonance or something.
There was a very good reason for his break from normalcy. After years of unemployment, he finally got a job as a secret shopper.
Now that every one was properly inebriated, it was truth time. No more pretenses. It was time to loosen the belt and let all that fat jiggle freely.
“Indian” Joe, not to be confused with “Native American” Joe, who was busying himself with slot machines, began his tirade. “Look, “Irish” Joe, just because I’m not as pale skinned as you; it doesn’t mean I ain’t got feelings. Sure, I can’t handle my whiskey as well as you can, and sure, I’m not comfortable around shillelaghs and potatoes like you, but I’m as human as you are, possibly more so.”