Ah Baloney, Guacamole

Reader participation: Write a verse and help complete my poem

Author’s note: Let’s have fun here.

I know of at least two failed poets in Monterey County. One of them is still alive, and that would be me. At best, my poetry carries the emotional resonance of a two-ton jackhammer. The second failed poet is George Sterling, who is not still living.

George Sterling was one of those louche boho Carmel wretches from the turn of last century who lounged around uselessly, drank too much, treated women like garbage and wrote nauseating paeans to the gods that read like fingernails on a junkyard chalkboard. Sterling was the louchest wretch of them all.

Worse yet, he told everyone he was a poet. And as they like to say in Poetry Hell, if you think you is one you ain’t.

BUT …. 

But George Sterling wrote The Abalone Song, which is at least something. It’s certainly more than I’ve ever done. As much as I’m foursquare against the likes of George Sterling, I admit to a jealous appreciation for The Abalone Song. It’s like the Hokey-Pokey of poetry.

George Sterling is credited with writing this magnum opus, but legend has it that he only got it started and that many of his hale and hearty boho friends added verses as they sang it around bonfires on Carmel Beach late into the night while they cradled bottles of rum, howled at the moon and treated women like garbage. 

Carmel eventually banned bonfires from its beaches, but so far the city has done nothing to stop the writing of bad poetry.

Anyway, abalones are passé; they’re hard to find and they’re largely forgotten to the world of poetry. So I say it’s time to refocus our attention from abalone.

It’s time to celebrate guacamole.

And so, with no apologies whatsoever to George Sterling, I present the start of something silly:

The Guacamole Song
Oh! some loathe avocado on toast
Because they think it’s phony;
But I’m of a piece to forgo my lease
And live on guacamole.

Italian is fine and I like to dine
On bread and cannelloni;
But I do my best with life’s biggest tests
When I’ve crammed on guacamole.

Popeye eats spinach and when he is finached
His muscles are big and stoney.
But before he proceeds with Olive Oyl’s needs 
He loads up on guacamole.

On Salinas’s streets, we love good cheap eats
As we dine with parsimony;
But, man, we ain’t cheap — and we don’t give a bleep! —
Quiero tacos con green guacamole.

He says Gee! And she says Whee!
And they say Holy-Móle!
And we all say, forget Bobby Flay;
We’ll take ours with guacamole.

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SO THAT’S MY START. But I know we can do better. Let’s finish this magnum opus together. 

In the tradition of wretched Carmel Bohemianism, I invite my clever readers to send me a verse or two at santalechuga@gmail.com. I’ll add them to the poem when I get tired of reading all your nutty verses.

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