The Brothers Braque

The Brothers Braque were a wicked pair,
Who kidnapped kids at the Chicago World’s Fair.
No other monsters could ever compare
To the Braque Brother’s style and fashionable flair.

Each and every child was chosen with care,
Chosen when parents weren’t aware,
Snatched from the Fair, held high in mid-air,
And secretly swept to the Braque Brothers’ lair.

Their methods were simple, tried and true-
A delectable recipe for Bad Child Stew,
An onion, some cumin, an eyeball or two,
Butterscotch chips and a half-cup of glue.

Bernard would set the pot to a boil,
Bertrand would throw in a handful of soil,
Then they would laugh at their juvenile spoil,
Who would wriggle and tremble, squirm and recoil.

“Any last words?” Bertrand would bray.
“Any regrets?” Bernard would spray.
“This is your chance, today’s your last day,
Any confessions you’d like to relay?”

The child would start with a sniffle and sputter,
His or her heart in a deafening flutter–
He’d shiver and shake and shutter and stutter.
She’d open her mouth and mumble and mutter.

“I stole the last cookie from the cookie jar.”
“I spilled chocolate milk in mommy’s new car!”
“I took a puff off of grandpa’s cigar…”
“I made fun of Penny for playing guitar.”

“I drew dinosaurs on the bathroom stall.”
“I started a fight on the playground with Paul!”
“I smashed a window while playing baseball…”
“I skipped school one day to go to the mall.”

“I stuck my fingers in the birthday cake.”
“I was the one who pushed Beth in the lake!”
“I wasn’t asleep, I was really awake…”
“I went to an R-rated movie with Jake.”

“Are you SORRY?” Bernard would ask at the end.
“Was it a one time affair? Or more of a trend?
If you think it won’t happen ever again,
Then perhaps, just perhaps, your soul’s on the mend.”

Bernard would give Bertrand a wink,
Then lift the child up from the floor to the sink,
Give him a whiff of the boiling stink,
And scrub him until he was tender and pink.

Lastly, they’d tell little Sally or Joe:
“If you do it again, rest assured, we will know…”
They’d point at the pot and the fire aglow,
Then they’d open the door and let the child go.


  • February 27, 2013 at 12:30 pm // Reply

    Love the poem. Best one yet!

  • May 10, 2013 at 8:55 pm // Reply


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