Biff and Iguana Man Strike Again

"Don't smash the exit signs," he said as I came in;
He wore a slick tuxedo and an ample double chin.
I eyed him for a moment, and I raised one eyebrow high;
I straightened out my shoulders and my nifty new bow-tie.
"What makes you think I'd want to, sir?" I asked with some disdain.
His features wrinkled grossly, as though seized with mortal pain;
At length I saw that this must be his version of a smirk,
And I thought he ought, perhaps, to seek a different line of work;
For a butler ought to be a thing that strikes you as serene:
A shimmer in the atmosphere, commanding, meek, and clean.
He ought to keep his feelings hid beneath a marble brow;
He must always answer calmly; he must never have a cow;
And a smirk is such a thing that, in his wildest, fear-filled dreams,
He must run from it in terror, and awake from it with screams.
These thoughts traversed my brain cells with the speed of lightning, greased,
And when I looked again, I saw his smirking fit had ceased.
He was gazing past my earlobe at a thing set just beyond,
With a look of grave suspicion, like a poodle near a pond.
I looked around behind me, but the only thing I saw
Was my trusty pal (his name is Biff), with hair like moldy straw.
I was gripped with understanding for the butler’s glassy stare:
This Biff’s a dandy sidekick, but he’s anything but fair.
Admittedly, his suit was nice, but this could not disguise
His toad-like face, his lumpy nose, his muddy, greenish eyes.
To the butler I addressed myself: “Of Biff be not afraid!
I know he looks the vandal type, but that’s just how he’s made.
He’d sooner die a martyr’s death than smash an exit sign;
Now please just let us in, for we’ve been beckoned here to dine.”
He pondered this a moment, then he bobbed his balding head.
“Alright, you guys, but watch your backs,” the aging butler said.
I wondered what he meant, but I was not allowed to ask,
For Biff had shoved me in the door before three seconds passed.
“Hey, what’s the deal?” I queried in a slightly wrathful tone,
“That butler might have news we would prove better to have known.
He said to watch our backs, and if I’m right that often means
That someone near at hand is cooking up a deadly scheme.
If we die tonight, I’m blaming it exclusively on you.”
Biff glowered, then he said, “That’s fine. I kind of hope we do.”
“Oh, come now Biff,” I cried, “What is the matter with your head?
This party’s not so awful that you’d rather turn up dead!”
“That’s easy,” quoth Biff glumly, “for the likes of you to say.
But you have no idea what I’ll suffer here this day:
I’m used to wearing blue jeans, chugging Pepsi from a can,
And chatting ‘bout the races, or whatever comes to hand.
But these folks, they’ve got their manners and their high-filootin’ gems;
They’ll stare at me and whisper, ‘What the world’s the deal with him?’”
I tried to reassure him; I advised him to relax.
I thumped his chest and then applied a wallop to his back.
He didn’t seem much cheered, but with reluctance still he came.
I led him to our host, whom I informed of both our names.
He welcomed us politely, then forgot that we were there,
For a pretty girl had walked past, and he had to smooth his hair.
After that, Biff tried to vanish, but his efforts were in vain:
In all that polished glamour, he stuck out with vivid pain.
There were satins, silks, and diamonds; there was gold, and all things fine;
There were botox-altered faces; there was caviar and wine.
And out there in the midst stood Biff, his crooked mouth agape;
I couldn’t help but pity him, he looked so like an ape.
At last the dinner chime was rung; we all filed in to feed
(For however fine our outsides, we’ve the same internal greed).
The cooking was exquisite, and the conversation bland;
Entertainment was provided by an aged crooner’s band.
Then suddenly the lights died, and a honking wail rang out;
The guests all shrieked in fear and stumbled aimlessly about.
“A red alert!” a voice boomed. “All you fruitcakes form a line!
You’ll be searched and questioned shortly: someone’s smashed an exit sign!”
I looked around for Biff, who in the crush had disappeared;
I saw him near the punch bowl, and his face looked awfully queer,
So I strode up to his side; I grabbed his hand and stroked its palm.
“It’s gonna be ok, Biff,” I declared, to make him calm.
He quivered like a jelly, and his face showed grief and rage
As he pointed at two men in matching suits up on the stage.
“They’re watching me,” he rattled, “And I know exactly why:
They’re sure that I’m the culprit, and they long to see me die.
It’s all because I’m ugly, man!” And sharply he exhaled.
“They won’t kill you, Biff,” I told him, “At the worst, you’ll go to jail.
And prison, though unpleasant, is a better fate than most—
Just think! You could be sliced up, fried, and eaten cold with toast.”
Biff looked at me, and I could see his eyes fill up with tears;
“You’re right,” he choked, “And now I must be master of my fears.
If a life in jail is what awaits, to such I’m now resigned;
But still, the fact remains – I didn’t smash that exit sign.”
I started, for this revelation caught me by surprise;
And, grieved by my disloyalty, I knuckled both my eyes.
“Oh Biff,” I whispered hoarsely, “By this injustice be not vexed.
We’ll find the rightful crook and wrap our fingers round his neck.
That butler, you remember, seemed to know this would occur –
Let’s see if we can find and quiz the noble, portly sir.”
We traipsed around the ballroom, and peered into every face;
There were humans in abundance, but the butler? Not a trace.
Then we saw a sign marked “Stairs” beside a door left just ajar;
We thought we’d take a peek. We wouldn’t wander very far.
But just inside the door there was this yellow “Caution” tape,
And in the act of sneaking past, the butler, mouth agape.
Above his head an exit sign (or one that once had been)
Was dangling by some wiring; and he gripped a rolling pin.
Befuddlement had seized me, but it didn’t keep me long,
For Biff leapt past and yodeled, “Hey! I knew those blokes were wrong!
I didn’t smash no exit sign – this butler did the deed,
And now he must be captured, and my reputation freed!”
A chase ensued that would have made an epic poet proud,
The butler’s speed defied his girth, and frankly, I was wowed.
But Biff cannot be shaken, once he fixes on his prey;
He kept up with his quarry, and at last he got his way.
In chains and brought to justice, still the butler’s eyes shot sparks,
But his bite had all been wasted; he could now but feebly bark.
As the cop car pulled away, and all the guests went back inside,
I looked across at Biff, and didn’t try to squelch my pride.
The lamplight on his features made me think of heroes bold,
Who, ugliness aside, have wills of steel and hearts of gold.
A better sidekick can’t be found, for snagging errant knaves,
Than Biff, who spends his life in making sure the world stays saved.
We crossed the street together, to where Kum n’ Go still stands;
I bought us each a Pepsi, and we drank it from the can.

nostalgia does not induce good poetry

My life is a memory.

Ahead is only fog.
A perfect light marks the end,
But the path I must take there is unclear.
What I think I see
May be something else,
Or perhaps it isn't there at all.

For an instant
I am in the present,
Then it flashes past into history.
Instant upon instant,
Always in the present,
But only an instant at a time.

Behind me is the story,
The one God's been telling all along.
It's frozen, and in a way it's gone:
I can't change it
And I can't have it back.
Time is a one-way street.

Sometimes when I stand where I used to stand,
And everything is changed,
Longing sweeps over me;
In a way I suppose I want it back,
But mostly I wish I'd known at the time
How soon it would be gone.

I spend so much time
Waiting for the future;
I don't understand that when it gets here,
It will turn into the present,
And by the time I realize it's happened,
It'll be over.

I'm always in yesterday's future.
I'm always in tomorrow's past.
This instant,
This little instant right now,
That's all I'm ever going to get,
This side of glory.

What am I doing with it?