Custom Written Poem
What was ordered:
Can you make me a funny / original poem about my former flat mate? His name is Markus.
we are living with 4 people in a shared flat. and this poem is dedicated to our former flatmate who has moved out 4 months ago. ( we are all students).
We liked him alot. We pretended to be a family called “Die Rottschas”.
We used to run alot through our flat and shouted just for the laugh. One night we got spontaniously drunk and sung old songs(Backstreetboys) until 5am
After he left, the new guy who moved into our flat cannot replace Markus. ( We are even scared that he will kill us, with knives he stores in his room, because we are just way too crazy for him)
so thats all. Use what you like and feel free too leave out.
What came out:
Ode to Markus
Markus, our long lost brother,
you filled our days,
in such phenomonal ways,
you can be replaced by no other.
Once upon a time,
we were a family,
partners in all kinds of crime,
and pranks for all to see.
We were Die Rottschas, a tribe.
We were untouchable by anyone,
until you moved away and ruined the vibe.
How could you have taken away our fun?
It was not your fault we know,
the blame belongs to fate,
we had to let you go,
and now it is far too late.
Our tears fall for you,
each night that we huddle,
away from the new guy who isn’t you,
hoping not to get into trouble.
This strange in our home,
rarely cracks a smile,
To him BackstreetBoys songs are unkown,
and he can’t comprehend our style.
What we declare fabulous and fun,
he declares wild and crazy,
and locks himself away until we’re done,
how is that any way to be?
Oh Markus, our brother,
why did you have to go?
You left us with another,
who we will never get to know.
He prefers polishing his knives,
to bouncing off of the couches and chairs,
he doesn’t understand our lives,
and expects things to be even and fair.
Doesn’t he get that it’s about family?
Doesn’t he know that Markus always cared?
Doesn’t he realize his Nutella should be free?
Doesn’t he think that every ordered pizza should be shared?
We sit in our corners and wait,
for the moment he closes the door,
then before it’s too late,
we throw all of the couch cushion to the floor.
We play a round of pillow tag,
just to remember you,
and sometimes pop the plastic bag,
and sometimes animals at the zoo.
Do you know what he says to us?
He says, ‘Keep it down, are you nuts’
He says, ‘Do you have to get drunk and cuss?’
He says, ‘Get your foot out of the lampshade you clutz!’
Who talks like that?!
Not Markus, that’s for sure.
Markus would never say any of that.
He’d be playing too, and asking for more.
Oh Markus, dear Markus, our friend,
we miss you and the little family we made,
so we wrote this poem to send,
to let you know what a difference you made.
Of course you can’t come back,
and we can’t ask you to stay,
but our little family will always lack,
the best part of our collective day.
We just want you to know,
that we are still your family,
and wherever you may go,
you’ll still be the one we long to see.
Maybe if you find yourself in the ‘hood,
you could stop by and say hello,
maybe if you really want to do something good,
you could get rid of this new fellow!
Or at least teach him to lighten up and smile,
teach him that life is meant to be filled with laughter,
teach him that even if we get annoyed for a while,
we’ll still always be family after.
Tell him that hallways are for racing,
that kitchens are for food fights,
that there’s no harm in embracing,
what feels silly and not quite right.
But if you can’t do that,
We’ll just have to try our best,
to get him in a Backstreet Boys hat,
and encourage him to join in with the rest.
For now, we’ll dream of you,
Our brother Markus who we must be without,
and do our best to keep our apartment a zoo,
even with one less wild animal to shout.
One thing is for sure,
Markus no matter where you may roam,
There will always be one open door,
Die Rottschas will always welcome you home.
Also if you don’t hear from us in a few days,
you should really point the police at that new roommate,
because anyone that knows how to kill that many ways,
must be carrying an awful lot of hate.
He’s always growling and grumbling which is fine,
but he can’t seem to take a joke,
so if one day none of us you can find,
he might just be your bloke.
Custom Written Short Story
What was ordered:
What came out:
If They Travelled Together
They left it all behind, Louise and Daniel. It’s good to do sometimes, to leave it all behind and not look back, at least for the time when you’re moving forward. It was a trip spent on boats, on trains, in the back of cabs and on airplanes. A trip to nowhere, and everywhere. Eat when the need arises, sleep the same as well. Hands held, skin on skin, lips on lips, feelings no one quite felt right in naming in the air.
Russia is where they found themselves, sometime after the start of their trip. Rooftops that look like multicolored Christmas ornaments, streets in a desperate need of paving.
“Look at that!” Louise would yell, pointing excitedly to anything that caught her attention, which is to say most things. Dan would smile, nod, and move on. The girl would linger, turning to see her companion was some ways ahead of her, and then she would rush forward, slapping him playfully on the ass for making her run past a few things which may have been as amazing as the last amazing thing.
But really they didn’t rush, they didn’t need to. They took in anything they wanted. There was a small store on the corner across the street from the miniscule hotel they were staying at. They woke in the morning and dressed quickly, jeans pulled on, shirts without a bra, shoes without socks. Across the street they went, into that small store. Drinks they couldn’t pronounce, prepackaged snacks that were wholly unfamiliar.
A small balding man stood behind the counter, his face looked as though it was just an inch too far to the left, he spoke out of the edge of his mouth, he kept one eye nearly closed. He spoke but Dan couldn’t understand him, and Louise was too busy studying him to listen, though if she had she wouldn’t have understood him either.
“I want to paint him,” Louise said, inspiration washing over her just as the fresh air of early morning did as they walked along the edge of the street. They went down past their hotel until they found a store in which she could by paints, a small canvas. Then back to the hotel they went.
She set up in the corner, perched on a wooden chair which leaned to one side, appropriate since the man’s face did as well. She worked from memory, added by a pill they had bought from a strange man in a strange coat the night before. She painted quickly, and when she was done she smiled, and they left the painting in the room and left the room behind.
Now the world was turning, Russia through a prism of colors and swirls. The pills were strong, their minds racing, their bodies fighting to keep up. Midday turned to evening, and more pills passed parted lips.
The sky grows dark, all the way to pitch black, the only light coming from fading streetlamp bulbs and the millions of pinpricks in the sky, as if the night was just black construction paper a kid punched holes into.
A party is found, loud music with a thumping bass line and little talent. Invites, slaps on the backs, and our intrepid heroes find themselves on a rooftop, standing upon a squat two story house. Beer, wine, something that taste like turpentine. Good times at the least, until the sun is up, shredding that construction paper, throwing brilliant yellows across the clouds, so one can stand on the rooftop and take in all of the brown and gray that Russia has to offer.
Back to the hotel to sleep, the painting of the crooked faced man leaning against the wall, the paint is dry, the painting more abstract now that the pills have worn off.
One bed, limbs intertwined. In the evening which acts as morning they rise, and they go. To the train station, large packs strapped to their back.
“I want to go here,” She says, and Dan shrugs and points out another destination. Ultimate though it doesn’t matter where they go, it’s just fun to go, and even better to go with someone you care about.
So onto the train, out of the station. Of course they took her suggestion, they speed towards their destination and the gentle rocking on the tracks, and the odd, faint scent of vodka makes them feel at easy. Heavy eyelids grow even more so. Trains were made for sleeping, rock you like a baby, and so they do. When they wake Russia is long behind them, only that smell of Vodka left to remind them.
The painting was left behind, set up on the dresser, hopefully the staff will allow the room to keep it, because it was a gift. Life is a gift, and travel is a gift, and friends and love are all gifts. The real gift is what you experience, and what gifts you give to others.