Internet slander (well, libel, I suppose) for one such as I, coming from people who don’t know me, can be disheartening. It can also be quite amusing, as in the instance of this forum exchange someone linked to me on Twitter. A quick google search done by someone else on Twitter revealed that there is indeed a poetry-espousing Lindsay Ellis somewhere out there on the Internet. Unfortunately, it isn’t me; the only things I’m running right now are a facebook page, my twitter and of course this blog (which I fail at).
It got me thinking, though, and I do recall that I DID write one poem in my short little life. After digging through my hard drive, I found it, and I have to say I’m still quite proud of it. It was inspired by the Child ballads, folk songs collected by one Mr. Child in England at some point in history (my details were a lot less fuzzy when I was in college. Which I failed at.) I was very into Child ballads at the time because of their connection to Irish folk music. With that, I wrote a Child ballad about the dorm room I shared at NYU on Broadway and 10th Street with one Nella Inserra; it, like many dorm rooms, smelled like unwashed ass. I wrote it just before the end of the semester, as we said our tearful goodbye to the room.
So I bequeath to you my bad poetry of yore, Internet. I hope you enjoy. College dorms should never have carpet. For any reason.
The Room What Smells of Ass
The Poem by Lindsay Ellis © 2004
What to do, what to do, upon stepping in
to the heavily unventilated room
For this room it doth truly smell like ass
and my nostril it doth consume!
We know not why, said the two residents,
Why this assy smell doth be
But what can be done, if in our power
to possibly appease thee?
Anything, anything, just make the smell go
Does this smell come from thee?
From where does it come, know you this?
Do you nothing? How can this be?
Be it the dirty clothes, the garbage pales,
or perhaps the unwashed sheets?
Be it some rancid food which somehow makes
The smell your nostril greets?
Nay, think we, said the two roommates,
for this hath happened before,
Twas spilled milk on the carpet then,
and perhaps it is that once more.
Do something then, insisted the guest,
for the smell simply won’t pass!
What plan you then to do, roommates,
to this room that smells like ass?
We know not, said they, for the time before
Baking soda on the ground was layed,
But when up it was vacuumed, in the air it went
And it was in the air it stayed.
We could not breath, and everything reeked,
Of powder with a flowery scent
And when it settled, there was no escape;
Into every crack it went.
So little is there for us to do,
Do little though we may
We can do the laundry, we can take out the trash
But still the smell doth stay
Carpet may be a hindrance, said they
And ventilation, there is naught
But always some smell lingers here
And it bothers us quite a lot
And now upon departure’s threshold we stand,
And our little room we do watch
And we clean things out most manfully
Yet still it smells like crotch
And with us you stand, you saw with us
As the year did come and pass
But through it all, change though it did,
It always smelled like ass.