highly unauthorized

Today, in honour of the beginning of my eighteenth year, I am posting my unauthorized [auto]biography. Some of it is even true:

The following diction,
Is of truth and of fiction
About the life of this chap
Whom you one day will meet,
With bananas for feet,
And when he sits, is missing his lap
This is the Jake,
With a nose like a snake,
And hair that’s kinda the same,
He speaks nothing but babble,
Dresses bedrabble,
And never remembers his name.
He’ll sleep on a bed,
With a pie on his head,
Till he wakes to his vicious alarm
Which is a song about lemons
And purple persimmons,
And a man with a spoon for an arm.
He tells us fine stories
Of fashion and glory,
That occurred in the great land of Pud,
About a man with a  horse,
And jelly race-course,
Who replaces his pen-ink with mud.
He’ll text with a phone,
That isn’t his own
And updates his Twitter each day,
Forever he’s sought,
A loftier thought,
For now he has nothing to say
He says wonderful words,
That you may have heard,
Like Jibboo and panda and smog
But he can’t talk no more
(as you well knew before)
Since the day that he swallowed a frog.
You never have seen
(that is Jake, I mean)
Such a tedious record of jail
His eyebrows need peeling,
He writes on the ceiling,
And he looks at the Vatican’s mail.

He leaves each Saturday,
To spend his week’s pay,
On coffee and kettles and tea
And he ever will brood
In a miserly mood,
And thus never leaves any for me.
He has such a habit
Of eating like a rabbit,
That’s he’s always so skinny and pail
But add unto that,
His attempts to grow fat,
Seem always to miserably fail.
He’s got such a distaste,
For white silk and white lace
That’s he’s convinced he never will marry
So he’ll sit in his chair,
and grow out long hair,
Till we come, his body to bury.
I will tell of his birth,
Though for what it is worth,
On this I do not like to dwell
For when he was first seen
He did nothing but scream
And all said “this doesn’t bode well.”
And when he reached two,
He was such a buffoon,
That terrorists fled from the fright
He yelled all the day,
Though he had nothing to say
And he broke all things in his sight.
And as he grew older,
He became so much bolder,
Till one day from the bunkbed he plunged
This frightened his mother,
Though he blamed his brother,
That his teeth through his low’r lip had lunged.
As if not enough,
When he was less tough,
He took a great leap from the swing
Which, thoroughly sound,
Was so far from the ground
That he dropped like a bird with no wing.
And like unto these,
Misadventures had he
Till he became older in years,
And before I rhyme,
About his teenage time,
You may wish to cover your ears.
His foolish demeanour,
Like a bottle of cleaner,
Expressed itself daily in speech
For often he’d batter
On ridiculous matters
On which he would cling like a leech.
And by now this rhyme,
Is consuming our time,
For in it his ego is plain-
So, it never was said,
Let’s end while we’re ahead
Before Jake lands in prison again.

  1. #1 by Jordan on June 30, 2010 - 8:38 am


  2. #2 by Gertrude on June 30, 2010 - 12:44 pm

    That’s not really the Jake I know……… LOL!!!!!!! Happy birthday, Jacob! Knowing you is truly always an adventure 😀

  3. #3 by Emily on July 1, 2010 - 10:02 am

    E. Lear

    L. Carroll

    Two thoughts that first came to my head.

    Many happy returns, banana-legs.

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