Booster the Moot (03/30/2003)

A Poem From the Vault

Most of this was written in 2003. The earliest known digital copy, found in an old .txt file, was dated March 30, 2003. I have handwritten drafts in a folder, but they don’t have dates written on them.

This dark-yet-somewhat rollicking ballad is the first appearance (hopefully not the last) of a fantasy species I’ll go into more down the road a piece. That’s not really what this is about, though.

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Booster the Moot

I

Now come on, you little children
And listen where ye lay,
To the tale of a Toodle-dook
’Twas tossed and led astray.

The weather was so breezy
And all the plum trees swayed,
When the moot-filled Bootch looked up
In a startled, cross-eyed way.

She began to rattle, gargle,
And some say even shake,
And she gave birth to this ballad
And sealed the Devil’s fate.

II

Booster, Booster the Moot,
Your big eyes were so glassy;
They thought you were so cute.
Booster, Booster the Moot,
Nuzzling them softly
As the darkness inside brewed.

III

Booster was the finest moot,
He played with all his toys;
He always ate all of his food,
He was the bestest boy.

Booster romped with Hoosh-Poop,
His brother from the Bootch,
But Hoosh was always cautious and
Oh-so careful to be couth.

Booster was the faster moot,
Bright-eyed, small of frame,
While Hoosh-Poop lumbered, wet himself
From thuds, growls, and poor aim.

Hoosh could whip him easy still,
Though fear had bent his spine;
He’d win the fight, then soil his hide
And lay on Booster’s pride.

IV

Booster, Booster the Moot,
Learned to plant his seed of fear
With flash of a sharp tooth.
Booster, Booster the Moot,
My, he was growing up into a fine young brute.

V

The family who took Booster in
Were pure of their intent,
But illness of the mind ran deep;
They dealt in arguments.

Their child would crown Booster the king,
Then snatch the crown away,
Then aggravate with plush toys high
And drop them on his face.

She booped his nose with frilly things,
She played till play went wrong;
She pushed Hoosh-Poop from precipice
And learned that screams were long.

The house was loud with swears and vows,
With doors that loved to slam;
The hate was thick, the air was tight,
And Booster drank it in.

VI

Booster, Booster the Moot,
The only one who seemed to bear
His owners’ rotten fruit.

Booster, Booster the Moot,
The other moots were malleable,
A group of glowing beauts.

VII

He’d hide beneath the table,
In the dust between the shoes;
He learned the creak of floorboards,
The opening door he knew.

Regardless of how quiet
Their entrance might have been,
He’d run the length of table
At lost souls who entered in.

At times he’d cry to be held,
Then turn and tear new holes;
He’d latch on to their finger, swing
Like a stripper on a pole.

He lurked where sleepers laid their heads,
After they went to piss;
He’d leap out from the covers
And throw a bloody fit.

A hand came fast, a body flew,
A foot lashed out from fright;
No malice lived in any blow,
Just groggy fear at night.

VIII

Booster, Booster the Moot,
A soft and precious baby
With demeanor that refutes.

Booster, Booster the Moot,
His traumas just beguiled him,
And an evil then came through.

IX

Booster was an angry moot,
And though other moots were strong,
He’d attack them without provocation;
His mind was clearly wrong.

He fought the larger moots for scraps,
For love, for looks, for sounds;
He growled at Hoosh till Hoosh-Poop learned
Which rooms were out-of-bounds.

His eyes would pop out of his skull.
His hair would stand on end.
He’d show his teeth and make a sound
Like a rattlesnake’s rear end.

Hoosh-Poop would shake and piss himself;
Other moots sat quiet,
Staring at him defiantly,
As if to say, “Just try it.”

X

Booster, Booster the Moot.
Yes, his heart was in it, but
His body would not come through.

Booster, Booster the Moot,
A day would come he’d go too far—
That old bad-addled fool.

XI

Booster died on Christmas morn;
He attacked a moot for toys,
And he never knew what hit him,
He never felt the storm.

They buried him that next day,
And still some people say
That when you look in a cross-eyed way,
And the weather is cool,
And the plum trees sway,
You can hear him rattle,
And gargle,
And shake—
Just like he did on that very last day.

XII

Oh, Booster, Booster the Moot.
The darkness surged within him,
But his strength just never grew.

Booster, Booster the Moot,
Now he’s in the depths of hell,
Givin’ Lucifer the boot.

Or at the very least he’s at the throne,
Pissin’ on the Devil’s hoofs.

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