Timothy Walter Burton
He wasn't soft and pink
witha fat little tummy;
he was hard and hollow,
a little boy mummy.
'Tell us, please, Doctor,
the reason or cause,
why our gundle of joy
is just a bundle of gauze.'
'My diagnosis,' he said
'for better or worse,
is that your son is the result
of an old pharoah's curse.'
That night they talked
of their son's odd condition-
they called him 'a reject
from an archaeological expidition.'
They thought of some complex
but assumed it was simple
With the other young tots
he only played twice,
an ancient game of vergin sacrifice.
(But the kids ran away, saying, 'You aren't very nice.')
alone and rejected, Mummy Boy wept,
then went to the cabinet
where the snack food was kept.
He wiped his wet slockets with his mummified sleeves,
and sat down to a bowl of sugar-frosted tanna leaves.
One dark, gloomy day,
from out of the fog,
appeared a little white mummy dog.
For his newfound wrapped pet,
he did many things,
like building a dog house
à la Pryimid of kings.
It was late in day-
just before dark.
Mummy Boy took his dog
for a walk in the park.
The park was empty
except for a squirrel,
and a birthday party for a Mexican girl.
The boys and girls had all started to play,
but noticed that thing that looked like a papíer mâché.
'Look its a píñata,'
said one of the boys,
'Let's crack it wide open
and get the candy and toys.'
They took a baseball bat
and whacked open his head.
Mummy Boy fell to the ground;
he finally was dead.
Inside of his head
were no candy or prizes,
jast a few stray bettles
of various sizes.
Timothy Walter Burton's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Mummy Boy by Timothy Walter Burton )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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