Christopher Byrne

Christopher Byrne Poems

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
...

I wandered round the garden gnome, alone, except for me
I started to imagining, not knowing what I see
I thought I spied a Gimble, a-gimbling in the grue
I see the gruesome Gimble, and don’t him make me spew
...

The Best Poem Of Christopher Byrne

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 was from this world 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

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