The Time I Got Mimed

Have you ever been mimed?
I have, and let me tell  you,
when it happened I didn’t have a good time.

We were in Rhode Island, a little town named
Misquamicut, a weird-sounding name, but I kid you nut.

 

There were five of us, young and full of  booze
out to hear a band called “Roomful of Blues.”

We got our beers and were standing around as guys will do,
checking out the scene by which I mean the women,  too.

An artsy type, in beret and whiteface decided to
come over and invade our space;
not that it was anything much to speak  of;
still, it didn’t need someone to be the freak of.

He stood there and stared, quite the gawker.
I tried  to ignore him—I wanted to hear T-Bone Walker.
But every time I shifted,  yawned or scratched
he’d reflect it back at me, as if we were  matched.

I’m glad I saw him, I might have dug in my ear or
played pocket pool in my groin. That would have
been embarrassing, having  to pretend I was looking for a coin.

It was as if I was looking in a mirror;
If I took a  sip, he’d drink an imaginary beer.
If I tapped my foot, he would also do  so.
It’s annoying to have your own Marcel Marceau.

We had him outnumbered, we could have jumped  him.
Still, there’s something about mimes; it seemed unfair to thump  him.

Eventually the guy got bored and decided to go  away,
an effect I have on people to this very day.

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