I was strapped to the zebra-striped Barcalounger in Kaye Grogan’s rumpus room. She was about to read another poem. If I’d had a hand free I would have reached up my nose and yanked out my skull, and beat myself in the head with it.

“Just one more,” I said. “And then perhaps…”

“Yes, Mr. Notgay?” Kaye said with big eyes and the same disturbing gap in her Jaguarundi-skin robe. You could say I’d seen an opening.

Her perfume was one of those rosy floral fragrances that young girls wear, but it blended with the solvents in the rubber cement into a volatile, limbic fume like a battlefield nerve agent. She was fluttering her flag-patterned huff-rag near her face like a lace hankie.

“Perhaps you would care to join me in a Pledge of Allegiance.”

The guards were in the Margay-patterned kitchen nipping from a bottle.

“Why certainly,” Kaye said in her raspy smoker’s voice, “And that reminds me…”

The American Way

As long as I can stand and speak,
I will proudly recite the pledge.
No matter who I may offend, I refuse to be placed on a,
Silenced cutting edge.

For my ancestors fought bravely and died,
To give me the right to honor the flag.

And as long as there is a breath in me, I will fly “Ole Glory,”
Fighting diligently…to remove every…

“Fag!”

“Snag.” Kaye said.

“The meter is delicious. I simply can’t resist a woman with such…”

“What, Mr. Notgay?” she flirted.

“Iambs,” I purred.

“Why sir!” she teased, “I was not aware you had a fondness for cat food!”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. “More poetry, please!” I lied flamboyantly. Where had Kaye’s goons put my pistol, my flash-bang grenades, my robotic claw-arm, my watch with the tiny nuke in it, and the other things I’d smuggled past the dazed airport guards while waving a Jeb Bush ’08 flag? All I had with me was a box cutter and a Bic lighter, and my exploding shoes.

For my freedoms are not yours to tread upon…
Nor will I stand idly by, while you strive to abolish everything good.

I will fight till the end to prove what your true motives are,
While you try to act so misunderstood.

“They do that, you know,” I said. “Call a liberal a traitor, and the next thing you know he’s accusing you of accusing him of treason! Do you know what traiteur means in French?”

“Why, no. Wah. Wobble-wobble-wah! Wubba-wubba…”

“Delicatessen!” I said. “It’s just like ordering a sandwich to them.”

Kaye took a big huff from her rag of rubber cement.

“Wah… What does it mean?”

“It means a sandwich!” the little guard shouted. “In French!”

“I simply can’t stand to hear French,” Kaye said. “It makes me nervous and unable to think.”

“Barbaric language,” I said.

Your secret goal is to rid the country of traditional values,
And leave behind a trail of devastation…
While you secretly strive to make communistic laws,
And build a one world nation.

As long as there is a breath in me,
I will profess that God is real and openly pray,
And no matter how much you object,
I refuse to come under your dictatorship or let my inner strength stray…

For this is the American way.

“Yay!” I said. “Ok! Hey! Touch?! — sorry if that sounded French.”

“Guards!” Kaye yelled. “You are dismissed for the evening.” They vanished like smoke, taking the bottle with them. Kaye pointed a cat-shaped remote control at the Barcalounger, and the restraints snapped open.

“Mr. Notgay — Mr. Amso Notgay — my name is Kaye Grogan, and I believe we are on a first-name basis. May I show you my collection of patriotic etchings?”

A robotic gun turret popped out of a trap door in the ceiling. Kaye popped it back up again with her cat-shaped controller.

I stood rubbing my wrists. “My heart would swell with pride,” I said with mind racing. “Tabernac!” I thought. “Quelle arme ai-je contre cette schizo-greluche? Je dois penser…”

***

Poem ? 2004 Kaye Grogan
All rights reserved