An Ode to Ray LaMontagne

I do not like Ray LaMontagne
I do not care to say his name
I cannot spell it, just the same
I do not like Ray LaMontagne

 

He doesn't like it when you talk
Or from his show, you start to walk
Or stop from looking up to gawk
Or listen to his velvet squawk. 

 

Or hang on to his every word, 
As if it weren't a polished turd, 
Or stupid lyric, most absurd, 
The dumbest thing the world has heard

 

The motherfucker makes me itch
My synapses, they start to twitch
I get a homicidal itch
When I hear sing this little bitch

 

His lyrics, all, are sad, half-baked
Ditties to the girl who staked 
his heart in college, chose to take    
Away his albums of Nick Drake

 

I do not like Ray LaMontagne
Whose throat is like a sewer drain
Not like fine wine, but flat champagne, 
An aural, yellow urine stain. 

 

That voice, he thinks, a precious gem
When all it is is dirty phlegm
And Drano and what's on the rim
Of toilet seats in Satan's gym

 

And then there is that hipster beard
I think it bioengineered
From shavings that he blithely sheared
Off balls of rats he commandeered

 

And then there is that goofy hat
Which looks as though a giant cat
Ate lumps of gelatinous fat 
And then upon Ray's head he shat

 

So when he comes into our town
To redneck bars, we'll go around
And dare him tell those gathered round
To shut their mouth and settle down

 

And when they beat his ass insane 
And kick it out into the rain
We'll no more hear the rectal strain
Of that goddamn Ray LaMontagne. 

 

 

 

Brent Sanders 2014

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