Mood House

      The door spontaneously closes on
       the cop, who for now seems to be long gone.
       But then his face appears on the TV --
       inverted colors mean antipathy.
       He moans about the basement, shaking keys,
 90    It's clear that he's no longer meant to please.
       He reappears in Linux's foyer,
       Provoking luckless Reginald to say
       "The doll and I just met!" and in his fear,
       His shirt has managed to just disappear. 

      But then it's back, and soon we learn the thrust
       of Reggie's fears: in the doll can he trust?
       The couns'lor asks why Linux wants to leave
       the beautiful Mood House.  And just like Eve
       was tempted by the fruit, Reg takes the bait.
 100   "A MOOD HOUSE?" asks he, then repeats times eight.
       As Linux keeps on droning the same line
       The couns'lor leaves, and- wait, let's make that nine
       times Reggie must reiterate that shit,
       and thoroughly overextend the bit.
       Then later, Reggie's sprawled out on the floor,
       when softly comes a knocking at the door.
       "The doorbell's ringing," Linux says, and then
       The counselor is back -- wait, make it ten.
       "A MOOD HOUSE?" Linux blares, while at the time
 110   The counselor explains the love sublime
       that Linux feels for his precious doll.
       It's not his bane, instead his one and all.
       As Linux thinks, the couns'lor leaves at last,
       for his part now lies solely in the past.
       Now Linux sits alone. The cell phone rings,
       and interrupts his thoughts of sundry things.
       He answers it, or at least he pretends,
       (because the phone's chime nonetheless extends)
       and tells the distant party of his bliss
 120   felt for his bondage matrimonious.
       "I need no marriage counselor," he claims,
       and hangs up, having thus achieved his aims.
       But then he dials Grandma, not for chat,
       or idle talk regarding this and that.
       Instead he shrieks about some sort of scare
       regarding living long and growing hair.
       "Now where's that doll?" he ponders next, for he
       must give to it his soul eternally.
       And in the closet hides the figurine,
 130   all aglow with lovely glossy sheen.
       "I love you," cries poor Reggie, but the two
       are meant to part, which soon makes Linux blue.
       He gazes deeply into its dead eyes
       Lamenting his sad fate.  "Oh, why?" he cries. 

      The house is evil, and so he must flee,
       Despite his grief at parting company.
       He runs downstairs, and in the kitchen finds
       The emanations of loud groans and grinds
       are coming from the sink.  (They don't exist
 140   quite yet but nonetheless they still persist
       in Reggie's mind, where cause succeeds effect.)
       Approaching closer, Reggie's hand connects
       with the disposal switch, provoking tears,
       and then emerging from the drain appears
       the doll unharmed, which Linux kisses well
       while a mushy background score does swell.
       He swears to see the doll forever more
       and thus complete, he heads to the back door.
       Emerging on his porch, does Linux stare
 150   out into the late afternoon's bright glare.
       The doll again appears from foreign lands,
       and drops out of the sky into his hands.
       Again his endless love does Reg proclaim
       all for the doll that seems to have no name.
       But sadly, all things must come to an end:
       there's matters to which Linux must attend.
       "Moving sure is easy," Reggie states,
       then steps outside to thus respool his fate.
       "Old house I've lived in all my life, goodbye!",
 160   says Linux, bravely keeping tear ducts dry.
       Then Reggie sets a box upon his car
       and then, on foot, sets out for somewhere far
       away from Mood Homes, dolls, and secret cops.
       And as he runs, we hear his final thoughts:
       "For as a baseball player once did say,
       to wish for everything is A-OK,
       because you'll never get it, all your life.
       And now I'm off to murder my own wife."
       
                            ~~~
       
       And thus complete, the saga does conclude,
 170   and from your seats you now may come unglued.
       The hard part now: for how can I assign
       a score to something wrought so very fine?
       In fact, why bother with intensive grading,
       just download it yourself and give a rating.
       Now I'll just crib a score from Mr. Platt
       and leave this metric savagery at that. 

– Andrew "Linguica" Stine