Monday, December 30, 2013

you don't like poetry?

It's day 150, so I wanted to do something special. This was written only in the time it took for the movie to play (actually, a little less, as I completed writing it and typing it up just as the last day of the loop was just beginning), so I don't figure it's the best poem ever (and I can't believe I couldn't fit in the name Punxsutawney). But, I think some of the lines turned out quite well. So, without further ado...

The Ballad of Phil Connors

Come all and hear of the hapless weatherman
Who in cold midwinter couldn't predict a storm.
Time started repeatin', he had no choice but transform.

Come listen to the sarcastic weatherman
Who ridicules the townsfolk, tricks a local filly,
Steals a bag of money, drinks and drives willy nilly.

So, come all and hear of the sad weatherman
Who, stuck in coldhearted curse of "I Got You Babe,"
Learned to lie and speak French better than ol' Honest Abe

Come all and watch the lonely old weatherman
Who for no reason takes a shovel to the head,
And after his biggest failure is dead, dead and dead.

You ask:

What's the biggest failure of this weatherman?
Cold and isolated, he pursued his producer.
Robotic, suspicious--still he tried to seduce her.

Come all and hear of the bitter weatherman
Who saved an old man and changed some old ladies' tire,
Only after losing out on his heart's desire.

So, laugh at the pain of the cold weatherman
Who got what he asked for when he laid out his traps.
He said that he loved her but he got back only slaps.

Come all and learn from the pained weatherman
Who, left with nothing, no possibility of deaths' end,
Could do little else but set his broken life to mend.

You ask:

How did he fix it, that wasted weatherman?
Limited by timelessness, he read every book,
He chose to be good and honest, no longer a crook.

So, come all and sing of the gay weatherman
Who content in the long winter of old Chekhov,
Sculpted ice and keyed tunes by Rachmaninoff.

Come all and sing of the happy weatherman
Who lost an old man but still accepted death's place
As long as he could still party and sculpt Rita's face.

Come all and sing of the sated weatherman
Who in fixing his ego also mended his heart,
But still had the wherewithal to say, "We'll rent to start."

Today's reason to repeat a day forever: to sing of Phil Connors to everyone I meet.

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