Puddin’ (An Ode)
© March 3, 2003 Mike McGee
This is a love poem, but not to any person, people, place or position.
No. This is a love poem to a specific substance. One we’re all familiar with, but rarely consider during times of nasty. That substance is pudding.
Ladies and gentlemen, I need you to pretend you’re not here for these words, for they are very personal. I am concerned with your safety. Those experiencing pangs of hunger, I urge you to leave the room, for this is about to become porn for fat people…
Those of you who wish to stay and experience gourmet eroticism, please, visualize along with me. Picture a buffet unlike any other, where beautiful people of your dreams have gathered to feed you the silky delicacy know as pudding. Imagine that they are all so enveloped by ecstasy, so into the feast, they keep referring to this magnificent substance as puddin. So drawn to it, they forget the letter G.
I would like to take a moment to speak to directly to that in which this poem was written:
Hello, pudding. Oh, how I miss you, baby.
How I long to be near your bowl
with a very tiny spoon
so that I can take my time and enjoy you
To caress your shapeless existence
To watch you do that gelatinous jiggle you do
just before I consume you with all the passion
I learned from Bill Cosby himself
Goddamn you, pudding!
How dare you disguise yourself!
Who will you be tonight, my sweet?
Maybe a bowl of Tapioca? A taste of butterscotch?
Or will you be more complex this evening?
Donning a vanilla-chocolate ripple
hiding away in my freezer
hugging a stick
and only succumbing to the name Pudding Pop!
Temptation is for the weak. So please, call me Weakly Weakerson when I am near you. Me and my band, The Weaktones, will play you songs of desire and merriment.
And if that doesn’t work for you, my dear, sweet pudding, I can always put on my Marlon Brando costume.
BRANDO VOICE: The one that seems to turn you on the most. The one that gets you all thick and creamy.
Oh, pudding! I could just drink you from a straw, out in my front yard, naked, in an inflatable kiddie pool full of you. The envy and confusion of those walking by would make it worth the effort.
[We interrupt this poem to bring you viable content in an attempt to make this poem more accessible to a broader audience… Peace in the Middle East. Holla at playa. Word to the nerd. My father never loved me. I wanna make a difference. I suck. You suck. The President sucks… Now back to the “poem” already in progress.]
I could cover myself with you, and go as you to a masquerade ball. People would want to lick you off of me, but I would say, “No, I will lick me! Because I have a tongue and a book on yoga!”
However, our love is limited, for I have discovered that my colon cannot tolerate our passion much longer. For you are composed with a blood of milk, and I should rather die than make you with water.
So let us call for one last night of nasty, then we will have but hope and memories to keep us warm at night. I will now summon the spirit of Bill Cosby, and say to you this: “Zibba, zang teeba dang sazza beeza damn! Hah! Because, Wednesday is hump day. Hah! Kodak moment!”
Forever I will spell love, P-U-D-D-I-N…I forget the next letter, but know that my love for you will never be consumed.