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The Monday Morning Memo

When Harold Met the Schoolboy’s Momma

Harold was an Irish bully
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

Schoolboy didn’t have a Dad.
He worked every day after school
In a welding shop full of bitter men
Who had broken every rule.

Life is hard when you don’t have a name.
You get all the shitty jobs.
A fourteen-year-old kid without no kin?
Let the little bastard sob.

Harold was an Irish bully
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

One night Harold was all pissed off
And  gave Schoolboy a hard right fist
That landed the boy ten feet away.
He wasn’t even missed.

Schoolboy got home late that night
With a goose-egg on his jaw.
Her baby boy couldn’t turn his head,
That’s what his Momma saw.

Harold was an Irish bully
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

“If I was a man, I’d beat him half to death,
But a woman can do what she can.”
So into the night she drove her car
To find a better man.

When Schoolboy went to work next day,
Boss said, “You run off and hide!
They took Harold away in handcuffs today
And his friends are ready to ride.”

Harold was an Irish bully
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

You cain’t beat up school-age kids,
Even in Tulsa-town.
D.A. said, “This has gone far enough.
I’m bringing that bully down.”

It took all he had plus everything
He could beg, borrow’n’ steal 
For Harold to make bail and hire
A lawyer. “You gotta make me a deal!”

Harold was an Irish bully
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

Lawyer said, “Your best chance would’ve been 
If that kid had ducked.
If you were freight, I would say
You are well and truly trucked.”

“That boy’s Momma is an eighteen WHEELER!”

Harold was an Irish bully,
Who always got his way,
Until he met the Schoolboy’s Momma
And she blew his ass away.

Out of money and deep in debt
Harold went to the Schoolboy’s home,
Got on his knees and begged his Mom,
“Please, please leave me alone.”

Schoolboy’s Momma said, 
“Are you impressed with what you did?
Two hundred pounds and 32 years old?
You shouldn’t have hit my kid.”

[Spoken]
Harold was an Irish bully
Who jumped into the frying pan.
Because when he met the Schoolboy’s Momma,
He met a better man.

© Roy H. Williams, July 12, 2020

Written at 6AM on a Sunday morning after deciding that I would write a third country song in 30 minutes. This time, it would be about something that happened to me.

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Random Quote:

“Finally when we were eating the cherry tart and had one last carafe of wine, he said, “You know I never slept with anyone except Zelda.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I thought I had told you.”

“No, you told me a lot of things but not that.”

“That is what I have to ask you about.”

“Good. Go on.”

Zelda said that the way I was built I could never make any woman happy and that was what upset her originally. She said it was a matter of measurements.  I have never felt the same since she said that and I have to know truly.”

“Come out to the office,” I said.

“Where is the office?”

“Le water,” I said.

We came back into the room and sat down at the table.

“You’re perfectly fine,” I said. “You are O.K.  There’s nothing wrong with you. You look at yourself from above and you look foreshortened. Go over to the Louvre and look at the people in the statues and then go home and look at yourself in the mirror in profile.

“Those statues may not be accurate.”

“They are pretty good.  Most people would settle for them.”

“But why would she say it?”

“To put you out of business. That’s the oldest way of putting people out of business in the world. Scott, you asked me to tell you the truth and I can tell you a lot more but this is the absolute truth and all you need. You could have gone to see a doctor.”

“I didn’t want to. I wanted you to tell me truly.”

“Now do you believe me?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on over to the Louvre,” I said. “It’s just down the street and across the river.”

We went over to the Louvre and he looked at the statues but still he was doubtful about himself.

“It is not basically a question of the size in repose,” I said. “It is the size that it becomes. It is also a question of angle.”

I explained to him about using a pillow and a few other things that might be useful for him to know.

“There is one girl,” he said, “who has been very nice to me, but after what Zelda said –”

“Forget what Zelda said,” I told him. “Zelda is crazy. There’s nothing wrong with you. Just have confidence and do what the girl wants. Zelda just wants to destroy you.”

“You don’t know anything about Zelda.”

“All right,” I said. “Let it go at that. But you came to lunch to ask me a question and I’ve tried to give you an honest answer.”

But still he was doubtful.

 “

- F. Scott Fitzgerald to Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast, by Ernest Hemingway, p. 126

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