The Unluckiest Man in Manhattan

The Unluckiest Man in Manhattan

The unluckiest man in Manhattan

was crossing Delancey one day

when he found himself knee deep in guano

with a Llama bird blocking his way

In a coat of many colors

though most of the colors were black

(it’s not that the colors weren’t there,

it’s just pigmentation they lacked)

‘Hey Llama boid, hi, how you doin’?’

he greeted the obstacle thus

though inside his insides were churning

and his outsides felt struck by a bus

For this wasn’t the only occasion

he’d found Llama bird stood in his way

and he knew from their previous engagement

Llama bird would demand that he say

Something verbally dexterous or tricky

words his tongue would be wrestling with soon

or his path would be blocked for eternal

or the very least thirty past noon

Like Oedipus meeting the Griffin

or Moses confronting the bush

the unluckiest man in Manhattan

felt an urge from that precinct to rush

But the Llama bird had no intention

to break up their scene in that way

so he wrapped up our hero in powerful wings

and politely requested he stay

Now our hero, whose name was Johobo

or sometimes just Yoho for short

Realized it was futile to struggle

in the Llama bird’s web he was caught

So he threw out his pride and his ego

and threw himself down on his knees

Then on bended legs, he shamelessly begged

and besieged his foe’s ear with these pleas

‘Oh Llama boid pray grant me freedom

I have an appointment to keep:

A man I once knew said he’d meet me at two

and it’s now almost fifty past three

If I fail to attend said appointment

my poor reputation is doomed

It’s bad as it is, since I failed in that quiz

‘bout my nocturnal trips to the Zoo

The police say they’ll have no compunction

since compunction’s in such short supply

I’ll be locked in a cage ‘til I surpass the age

old Methuselah had when he died

The Llama bird watched with no pity

as Yoho continued to squirm

The very foundations of old New York City

were ashamed they‘d produced such a worm

But Yoho was twenty past caring

engrossed by the fix he was in

He had only one aim – it was always the same –

to salvage his own precious skin

The climax was swiftly approaching

the Llama bird took a deep breath

“You’re dying to ask,’ he said, “What is the task,

that will shortly result in your death.”

‘You’re mistaken,’ Yohobo informed him

‘Curiosity’s just not my thing.’

The bird played his ace: ‘That may well be the case

but my song you are still going to sing.

‘And sing it in numerous accents

I will choose from those parts of the earth

Who have problems with speech, those who bellow and screech

who have vocal chords mangled at birth

From places like Atlanta, Georgia

To Liverpool, England near France

From Brooklyn to Oz, Northern Ireland because

they speak brogue and wear brogues when they dance

If you fail in this task I will set you

your soul will be mine for all time

Not to mention your liver and kidneys

which I’ll simmer in butter and wine

Your brains I will keep in cold storage

to peruse at my leisure one day

While your feet gently stew and the remnants of you

will be pickled in sweet Chardonney

Yohobo searched, frantic, for freedom

in every direction he knew -

East North West and South, while the Llama bird’s mouth

was a torrent of digestive goo

There was no escape, that much was certain

and lunchtime was coming up quick

The Llama bird tucked in his napkin

Yohobo was physically sick

As he coughed up the last of his vomit

with his sinuses clogged up with chunks

stomach acid attacking enamel

inspiration asleep in its bunk

Poor Yohobo resigned himself sadly

to the fate fate had fated him for

He thought he’d been heading for 17th Street

Who’d have guessed that address was Death’s door?

The Llama bird pressed on, relentless

preparing the words for his prey

Like a gourmet selecting the finest of foods

he knew just what Yohobo must say

But as he began to recite them

and Yoho prepared for the slab

Llama birD from this world was most untimely ripped

yes indeed, he was struck by a cab

And the irony rained down like silver

as the Llama bird lay there, quite dead

For the cab driver didn’t know English

from the holes in a Killer Whale’s head

Yohobo rejoiced for a moment

then quietly tiptoed away

The unluckiest man in Manhattan

had finally had a good day