Lucinda Bahl catered and pandered to the one-percenters,
which was quite laughable,
as she thought they were greedy bastards
behind their majestic swagger.
She always greeted them quite obsequiously in disguise,
barefaced and blushing,
in a maid’s uniform concealing her tramp stamp—
a hint at her lower class from Flushing.
By dawn, she cleaned their houses;
by dusk, she cleaned their clocks.
In manic states of unrest and undress,
she was quite fashionable with body paint caked on as camouflage,
as she skulked through her employers’ McMansions,
replacing their Jackson Pollocks
with copies that mimicked the worthless works.
She was a zany, green-eyed bandit,
dauntless, equivocal and cold-blooded—
a klepto with dual personalities,
who often hobnobbed with her alter ego.
She drugged (or roofied) her masters,
rolling the women for their jewels,
then noiselessly, in bare feet,
tipsy-toed to the other side of the bed
and reached under the bedroom blanket for the family jewels.
Dressed as Greg Brady,
her eyes would turn dark with excitement as she hurried,
finishing with a gust of breath.
Her right hand knew not what her left one did,
and her arms were like those of Olympians.
Every year, she would have a baby bump,
which always aroused a kerfuffle.
DNA was a woman’s best friend,
and a compromise would be reached without a scuffle.
Mr. and Mrs. would negotiate for the baby,
in exchange for the boodle,
and none was the wiser,
for they didn’t use their noodle.
It was a safe bet for Lucinda Bahl–
this belle of the balls.
Being a millionaire heiress herself,
her father being the inventor of the Spice Racketeer,
and collapsible luggage,
she was still lonely.
Prone she was to metamorphize into a generous, frugal soul,
donating plasma for free juice and cookies,
which became a strange attention addiction.
Nevertheless, she was remorseless
when she was in her right mind (or left brain),
for she blamed the haves for the have nots,
that littered her lawn like gnomes with their deafening cries,
making her gloomy and disheartened.
Then it became apparent there was an outbreak
of some disease which caused lots of bloodstained puking,
an epileptic elbow,
and an eyeball so lazy it wouldn’t bother to open.
The only cure was a glass of skim milk,
which would ease the discontent.
It was quite the source of gossip.
The men (all friends) began to realize they’d been had,
and when Lucinda came to work wearing an eyepatch,
they decided to fix her unwelcome wagon once and for all.
They had suffered character assassination from the media,
and from countless anonymous online critics;
they had suffered savagery from their children,
torture from their wives,
who took delight in besmirching them to their mothers,
taking them to court and ruining their lives.
They wanted to charge Lucinda with unlawful seduction,
though they realized it was all circumstantial evidence,
for Yonkers was going bonkers with it.
Lucinda’s hair was no longer lustrous like sunshine,
her face radiant like moonbeams,
but lackluster and flawed.
She looked like the low-rent kind of broad
who lived rent-free in her head.
Lucinda the Accused,
became Lucinda the new star of TLC,
with lots of advertising from social media,
and with the backing of varied sponsors such as
Eastborough Baptist Church of the Quiverfulls.
“The Real Housemaid of NYC”, her label,
was obscene, but marketable,
and the gnomes had their hero.
Many assumed it had been a premeditated publicity stunt.
It was unreal, monumental,
this champion of the “working class”,
who was just a rehash of white trash.
She became a fixture on the cover of Starr–
a courtship that would last for 15 minutes.
However, it was never enough exposure,
and she got a show on MSNBC.
but an open platform to rant about the dangers of breathing
and anything Bush,
pandering to their audience of 1000,
impeding her stardom.
She missed the ratings,
and so she filmed herself submerging in a bathtub of iced tea,
complete with a Dalmatian,
uploading it to YouTube,
becoming a cult sensation.
However, her girls, once fans, had become jaded,
even though she got an interview with the President,
who was quite a pedant,
much to Fox News’ amazement.
Her daughters remained with their sperm donors,
in their birthplaces in the five boroughs of New York,
becoming Olympians in pole-vaulting.
Lucinda’s ill-gotten gains dwindled,
and she retired from her life of psychosis and crime,
feeling more secure in a place she belonged–
the last star of “Stars Behind Bars”.
She’d reached her summit,
like a great mountaineer,
but at the end,
had groveled for a sex change while on the mend.
The buzzer went off,
and Lucinda, now beached
and pumped full of meds,
awoke from her little trip back in time,
feeling tranquil without a dime.
Tis the end of my ode to those who dream of a life of reality stardom,
and to those who watch it.
For today’s prompt, take a word or two (I took it a step farther and used ALL of these: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/biography/wordsinvented.html) invented by William Shakespeare, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem.
What you are about to read is truly absurd (which is one of my favorite words, as it can be used to describe many things). It’s sort of a riches-to-rags story involving a dizzy redhead and is a satire/spoof of reality TV.