A Modern Canterbury Tale
A New Look
A few of us were studying the Canterbury Tales in English Class,
and thought it would be fun to write their own "tale" and prologue
based on the same format as Chaucer's end rhyme. They used a modern character
and tale. The Garbageman has an interesting tale. Here it is:
The Garbageman's Prologue
In the back streets of New York City
There lie many bags of things, not so pretty.
The people’s waste is hauled away,
A full time job, not only one day.
Who can do this job? Only one can.
He’s the best of the best; He’s our garbage man.
Caked in dirt from a hard days work
All his clothes, hat, pants and shirt,
Every article that he has on
He acquired from behind The Bon,
From the garbage of Ms. Goodall
And from some guy named Paul.
He’s not very short but really quite tall
Needless to say his clothes don’t fit at all.
From Ms. Goodall came the big brown bibs.
Paul’s dirty white shirt fit tightly around his ribs.
“I’d rather be fishin’,” read the words
on the front,
But if you inquired, he’d respond with a grunt.
You can’t see his dark eyes, because his hat’s pulled down,
Which is supposed to be green, but is a red orangish brown.
There was a fuzzy ball on top of that hat,
But it came off, as did his hand when he saved the cat.
His skin and his hair are like leather from day to day,
And he smells like a skunk, even man’s best friend runs away.
Although he looks bad, and smells that way too,
He really is nice, and willing to help you.
The Garbageman's Tale
Mrs. Starr had lived for three of my lives,
She lived all the way up to a hundred and five.
Her husband had died half her lifetime ago,
Where his wealth (and my math) went, no one would know.
“Good morning Mrs. Starr,” I said on my way,
“I’m here to take your garbage away.”
“I’m so glad you’re here today, honey,” said Mrs. Starr.
“I can’t take my own garbage, the dumpster is too far.
Here are some cookies to warm you up,
And I’d offer some cider but I can’t reach a cup.”
On my way out, I grunted my thanks, almost in a run,
Thinking of my other friends; oh yeah, there’s only one.
This scene continued day after day,
I’d take out her trash, with cookies she’d pay.
In my lifetime I’ve gained only this one friend,
In the back streets of her building my spare time I would spend,
Looking through the window, she mostly watched TV,
Things like The Simpsons, Wheel of Fortune, and Jeopardy.
Like teaching a really old dog a new trick,
I gained an education fairly quick.
One fateful day it was dark, rainy, and cold.
I was watching an episode of Seinfeld, quite old.
I glanced to the side to see where Mrs. Starr was at.
I didn’t see her anywhere, she wasn’t where she usually sat.
From my post at her window I ran into the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
I heard a thump come from overhead,
I ran upstairs to find Mrs. Starr dead.
Framed in the window, he was holding a knife.
The method of murdering madness which took my friend’s life.
He had opened the window, there was no time to think-
I jumped right after him, I didn’t even blink.
The knife flew free and clattered in a garbage can.
I picked up the knife and ran after the man.
I saw on his sweater some letters that read:
“Mikey Fitz.” He had no hat on and had a blond head.
Revenge was the only thing on my mind.
I hated this beast because Mrs. Starr had been so kind.
So before he could get away,
A superman tackle- with a grunt he lay.
With a flash the knife came down.
“TAKE THAT!” I yelled at the dumb clown.
I looked at the knife, then looked at the blood.
Death had swept through here like the rush of a flood.
“Call the Police!” I heard someone yell.
How many were watching, it was hard to tell.
I didn’t care anymore so I gave myself up.
No more cider or cookies, no more reaching for that cup.
I’m in here for life, tortured night after night.
My cell is so dark with very little light.
EDITOR’S NOTE FROM AN INMATE IN JAIL:
This man has gone crazy, and the reason I’ll tell.
He received a great fortune from the hands of Mrs. Starr.
He really lucked out! But it didn’t go far.
For when he killed that Fitz, he got stuck here for life,
His mental ability has been worn away, as does clothing schleif.
He can’t get the money now, no matter what,
Because he’s been in jail. It’s a blow to the gut.
The moral of this story (if you haven’t figured it out)
Is don’t take revenge. It will get you beyond doubt.
THE END
By Adam, Alicia, and Kelsey
