Minimalist Jones walked around on the air, owned only one shirt, and rarely had hair.
TAGS: minimalist jonesMinimalist Jones would stare straight ahead, when talking to people, and when lying in bed.
TAGS: minimalist jonesPoor, dear, sweet Abraham Jones, the only girl in the fourth grade named after her father’s favorite president.
TAGS: minimalist jones, Abraham JonesMinimalist Jones met Mr. Cheevy,
And thought him much too chancy,
The iron clothes an assault on sense,
And certainly much too fancy.
The sweet little girl with the unusual name,
Whose father, some whispered, was slightly insane,
Asked very few questions and was exceedingly quiet,
Except for just once, when she started that riot.
Minimalist Jones owned one single book,
That he’d read but one single time,
“A terrible story,” he’d grumble if asked,
“To print it was surely a crime;”
He’d carry the book around in his coat
To remind him that things could be better,
He’d stare at the cover while eating his lunch,
Reading not one single letter.
Minimalist Jones liked jam in the morning
But would only toast one side of his bread,
Then he’d wash it all down, not with coffee or juice,
But a glass of plain water instead.
Minimalist Jones, it turns out, could not hold a note,
Or so said his neighbors in the complaints that they wrote;
“It’s all in your head, I’ve committed no crime,
Close your windows,” he would sing, “and stop wasting my time.”
“One eye alone would serve me just right,”
Minimalist Jones would say when asked about sight;
“Just one in the middle, right over my nose,
Solving the problem of where my monocle goes.”
Minimalist Jones would hardly ever sleep,
Which isn’t saying he couldn’t;
“Lying down just wastes so much space,
That it feels like maybe I shouldn’t.”
Minimalist Jones would sometimes watch trials,
To help him, he’d say, better understand smiles;
“In order to measure the smile’s effluence,
I note numbers of teeth, and things like congruence.”
Minimalist Jones got in only one fight,
Threw only one punch, but with all of his might;
His aim, however, was a tiny bit wide,
So he punched only air and badly injured his pride.
Minimalist Jones it is said, knew the secret of flight,
That it’d come to him, clearly, in a vision one night;
“The secret’s not flapping, nor feathers or wings
But in knowing a few of the basic bird things.”
Minimalist Jones once came down with a cold
And was laid up for weeks, or so I am told;
His head was quite stuffy, his eyes runny and red
So his daughter, little Abraham, sent him straight to his bed,
Where he coughed and he sputtered and blew his sore nose
And built a mountain of tissues, I hear, which was quite grandiose,
And his sneezes, they say, could be heard for twelve blocks,
And came out so hard they would blow off his socks.
Minimalist Jones once had a horrible squabble
With a turkey that’d never quite learned how to gobble,
The turkey just stood there, eyes straight ahead
Understanding not a single word that was said;
It’s Thanksgiving, you see, Minimalist Jones told the bird
Who then fluffed up his feathers, as if maybe he’d heard,
You don’t have to like it, we can just call it fate,
But you, my fine bird, will be served up on a plate;
Some say the turkey pecked Jones on the knees,
Then opened his beak and let out a big sneeze;
Others say he blinked as Jones grabbed his red neck,
Flapping his wings as he screamed, “What the heck!”
Minimalist Jones once suffered a mugging,
That left him, he claimed, not too fond of hugging,
“All that touching and groping, it’s not at all fun,
‘Hey mister,’ they say, grab your wallet and run.”
Minimalist Jones owned quite a few hats, which hung from the hooks in his hall,
Each to be worn for special occasions, his collection not excessive at all -
The bowler, for instance, he wore only for courting, the Panama went well with white slacks,
The boater for singing, the Shtreimel for fun, the pork pie for playing his sax,
A busby or garrison for special parades, a sombrero for eating burritos,
A deerstalker for times of inclement weather and a burqa for fighting mosquitoes;
And down near the end was a cabbage-tree hat, that sat all alone on a shelf,
“That one,” he’d say, “is a one of a kind - a gift I received from an elf.”
Minimalist Jones once had one single date
With a woman with terribly long fangs,
“I thought her sophisticated,” he sometimes replied,
“Mostly on account of her bangs.”
Minimalist Jones had practical dreams,
Arranged neatly inside of his head,
Mostly dreams about saving and not wasting time,
And how to hold still while in bed.
The producers of The Wild Coyote, dead set on crossing over into other genres, cast Minimalist Jones in a major role but were soon disappointed when he turned out to be a man of few words as they already had a major character who spent 60 minutes a week silently brooding his way through spaghetti western after spaghetti western.
TAGS: minimalist jones, lupine, wild dogs, the wild coyote, westerns, television shows