03x03 - Poetic Justice

[bunniefuu]

♪ Na na na na ♪

You know how sometimes things

sound like they're gonna be

really fun but then they aren't?

I hate when life suddenly

flip-flops from totally cool to

major bummer.

For example, having a brother.

The concept is good.

A best bud who'll protect you,

confide in you and let you wear

his cool leather jacket.

But then, the reality.

I mean, is brotherly love

overrated or what?

Then there's the ever-rad idea

of camping in your backyard.

Just you, a starry night and the

great outdoors.

Pretty cool until you get ,

bug bites and a visit from your

neighbor's bulldog.

[dog barking]

And take homework.

Like getting to make a

topographical map of the Baltic

states sounds like so much fun.

But then it turns into a chore

from hell.

Which brings me to this poem I'm

supposed to write for school.

Hey. It's my chance to express

my innermost feelings,

to challenge my creative

impulses, to boldly go where

no poet has gone before.

Or maybe it's just a chance to

go brain-dead and totally

embarrass myself with the

dorkiest poem in the universe.

Yuck.

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na

♪ All right, all right

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na na

♪ Way cool

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na

♪ All right, all right

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na na

♪ Way cool

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na na na

♪ Na-na na na na ♪ Just do it ♪

♪ Just do it ♪

"A candy wrapper blows

across the yard.

A rusty bike upon the grass

does sit.

I'm finding this assignment

very hard.

Oh, look, I see somebody's

baseball mitt."

Oh, I don't know about this.

Ms. Winchpenny says we have to

write a poem about what I see

outside my window, but I've been

sitting here for an hour already

and I haven't seen anything

worth writing a poem about.

Hey, this could be interesting.

"A ladder hits my window.

Sam climbs up and up and--"

Oh, hi, Sam.

Hi, Clarissa.

Working on your poem?

How'd you guess?

I spent all day staring out

my window, too.

So what did you see?

Dirt and grime.

Doesn't sound pretty, Sam.

What'd you write?

An ode to filth?

No, I cleaned my window and

then wrote a poem about my

brand-new view.

Maybe that's my problem.

I've had this same view for so

long. So, let's hear what you

came up with.

"There once was a guy

named Sam whose homework

required he cram.

He looked out his window,

the grass needed a mow

and suddenly felt in a jam."

What do you think?

Not exactly "Rime of the

Ancient Mariner," but it's solid

enough.

Too bad Mrs. Winchpenny

thinks limericks are the lowest

form of poetry.

At least you have something

to hand in.

Besides, Ms. Winchpenny only

likes poems about sunsets and

rainbows and daffodils.

There are none of those

outside my window.

I'm just going to hand in my

limerick.

And I'm just going to throw

in the towel.

Why not write the sappiest

poem you can think of?

Mrs. Winchpenny will love it.

Sam, I can't think of

a poem, sappy or sap-less.

This window and I have hit an

all-time low on the inspiration

scale.

My dad and I are going to the

sportsman show.

Maybe I can pick you up some

rainbow-colored fish lures.

Thanks, Sam.

Bring me some sunsets and

daffodils while you're at it.

Anything to help the creative

process.

I'll check you out later.

Okay. Bye, Sam.

Okay. If I don't want my

creative process to get a big

fat "F," I better get off my

butt and get moving.

I'll have to look far and wide

for real inspiration.

Tree, oh, tree.

Hey, that's a start.

So far, only about ten bazillion

poems have been written about

trees, but, hey, who's counting?

"I think that I shall never

see a poem lovely as a tree,"

or so I've read.

All right, you ready to

cha-cha-cha?

Cha-cha-cha? I thought it was

a salsa class.

Yeah, well, I was speaking

metaphorically.

Cha-cha-cha? Maybe that's

a metaphor I can use.

You know, I'm just not sure

I want to do this.

I've put my dancing years behind

me, Marshall.

Oh, come on, the first three

lessons are free.

And we can't turn down my prize

for being the th customer to

buy Rodrigo's Industrial

Strength Red Death Salsa.

Red Death?

Now that's poetry.

Too bad Red Death and rainbows

don't mix.

Clarissa, in poetry, when you

look through the window,

look through the window of your

imagination.

That sounds great, Mom, but

see, I've really got to see my

window through Ms. Winchpenny's

eyes. Rainbows and daffodils.

Yuck.

Why don't you borrow my

volume of Emily Dickinson poems

to help you get inspired?

I'll take all the help I can

get, even if it's from

the th century.

You know, sport, you could

always try the st century.

What do you mean, Dad?

Well, it's a little trick of

mine, you know, change

perspective. Like, I know

they'll be building buildings

in the future, but how will

they go about it?

So you're saying I should

think of myself as a poet of

the future?

It works for me.

Are you ready?

I want to perfect my Lambada,

the forbidden dance.

Looking like that should be

forbidden.

I didn't know you were

interested in these dancing

lessons, Ferguson.

Yes, Dad. I think dancing

is the highest form of

non-verbal communication.

And if I someday want to run a

successful import/export

business with our friends in

Latin America, I have to be able

to speak the universal language

of Lambada.

You mean the universal

language of "dorkada."

I think it's great you want

to join us for dance lessons,

Ferguson, but we're not learning

Lambada, we're learning salsa.

Yeah, we better get going

or we're gonna miss our first

lesson.

Little league, Eagle scouts,

fishing trips, but father-son

salsa lessons?

Come on, the hypnotic b*at of

the congas is calling.

That's just the b*at of the

alien mutants calling you back

to your rightful birthplace.

Keep laughing, scuzzbrain.

Just wait until I'm making a

bundle off sweet little old

ladies who will pay to have a

handsome, young dance pro lead

them around the ballroom.

Ferguson gives whole new

meaning to the phrase

meaning to the phrase "dancing fool."

"dancing fool."

Okay. In order to fulfill the

Winchpenny requirement,

I've tried to put myself into

a poetic state of mind.

First, I've got this starving

artist thing going.

No munchies, just a pot of herb

tea. I'm wearing my most

poetic gear. All artsy,

all creative, all black.

And I'm using an inkwell and

feather pen to write, just like

Emily did, except I'm not

actually writing.

Maybe Dad was right.

I've got to get with the future.

I've got it!

Ow!

Ow! [thud]

[thud]

Hi, Clarissa.

Shh! Now now.

It just hit me.

Really? This flying feather

thing just hit me.

Sam, I've seen the future of

poetry, and its name is PC poem.

What are you talking about?

I'm talking about

computer-generated poetry, Sam.

Why rack my brain when I can let

the computer wreck its hard

drive?

Wow, that's pretty cool.

But is it really poetry?

I'm sure if Lord Byron had

had a laptop, he would have done

the same thing.

So how do you do it?

Well, all I have to do is

modify this vocabulary program.

Okay. Now, all we have to do is

put in those sappy, geeky

Winchpenny words and let the

computer do its thing.

computer do its thing. Here.

Here.

"Daffodils."

She'll love it.

But how can your computer

look out your window?

Simple. Input.

"Window."

Don't forget to include

your backyard.

No problem.

One thing. Can your computer

be grammatical?

Sam, this is a poem.

The less grammar, the better.

Okay, guy.

Do your thing.

This is pretty awesome.

I feel like the future is now.

We're witnessing a powerful

mind at work here.

A multi-megabyte mind to be

exact.

No blood, no sweat, no tears.

And it's done.

Poetry of the future.

So let's hear it.

"Gray cube,

rectangular light,

cantilevered rainbows.

Sunshine, open, close, open,

close, glass.

Square sunset.

Outside, outside, outside.

Sunset inside.

Daffodils."

Wow. That's either the worst

poem I've ever heard, or the

most brilliant creation since

"Dude Looks Like a Lady."

At least it's a poem...

I think.

Just one question.

How come this feels kind of

like, well...cheating.

And a-one and a-two,

three-four, and a-one and a-two,

three-four. Hey. I'm getting

the hang of this.

You're looking really good,

Dad. Of course, I wouldn't mind

throwing in a few extra private

lessons.

Let me guess.

There wouldn't happen to be a

fee involved, would there?

I just don't want dad falling

behind the rest of the class.

He's doing just fine,

Ferguson.

That's right. Chep said that

I was the most improved student

in class this week.

Of course, when you've got the

farthest to go...

You're a great dancer, Dad.

Hey, I'm having fun, that's

all that counts.

Let's tango.

Oh, that's salsa, Marshall.

[telephone rings]

Oh.

Hello? Yes, this is

Mrs. Darling.

Ha. That's probably one of my

widows calling for a dance

lesson. Aunt Dorney recommended

me to her mahjongg partners.

Great that you're not above

exploiting the senile.

Yes, Mrs. Winchpenny,

Clarissa's poem.

Mrs. Winchpenny?

That does it. I'm baked.

And the principal knows?

Make that fried!

Don't worry, I'll tell her.

Deep fried!

Clarissa, apparently your

poem caused quite a stir.

Well, you know how much

trouble I was having, Mom?

It was the Emily Dickinson,

wasn't it?

I tried to write like Emily,

Mom, but I just couldn't get

into it.

Clarissa, Mrs. Winchpenny

said that you have been chosen

to recite your poem at the

regional Youth Poets United

annual banquet.

Me?

Recite?

My poem?

Hey, that's fantastic, sport.

I knew you were a poet of

the future.

Are you sure Clarissa's poem

wasn't chosen for the youth

idiots united banquet?

Ferguson, you should be proud

of your sister.

She just may be the one to win

the Golden Quill award.

Let's go back.

I have to get up in front of...

people and actually read this

thing?

Poetry doesn't really come to

life until you say it aloud.

I don't think this poem's

gonna come alive without serious

medical intervention.

I can perform a dance

interpretation.

Our little poet. We'll make

this a celebratory dinner.

That's okay, I think I just

lost my appetite.

You know what they say about

writing poetry.

"Begins in joy and ends in

wisdom."

Make that total embarrassment.

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na na na-na na na

♪ Na na na-na na na ♪ Na na na-na na na ♪

♪ Na na na-na na na ♪

♪ Na na na-na na na ♪ ♪♪

♪♪

Okay, my computer poem has

just been published in the

school paper, and I'm ready

to go into hiding

with Salman Rushdie.

Now Ms. Winchpenny wants me to

memorize my poem for the Youth's

Poets United banquet of major

embarrassment.

Personally, I'd rather just

forget the whole thing, but

before I become an ex-patriot

poet on the planet Zornox,

I think it's time for a Darling

family update.

Shep Corsera's world o' dance

has turned the Darling house

into world o' dorks.

Mom and Dad are salsa-ing up a

storm.

Mom has even got industrial

strength galoshes to protect

her.

Ferguson's backyard dance studio

got off on the right foot when

Aunt Dorney signed up to

re-learn the Lindy Hop.

Now that's entertainment.

And I've been doing my best to

remove my poem from every copy

of the school paper I could get

my hands on.

I'm caught in a nightmare of

conflicting emotions.

Embarrassment at having written

a poem that even mentions the

word "daffodils," and guilt

because I didn't really write

this poem at all.

[knock on door]

Come in.

Hi, Hillary.

Hi, Clarissa.

I just came over to congratulate

you on your poem.

Thanks, Hil, but you know,

you've already congratulated me

ten times.

I just think it is so cool.

And now you're even a published

poet.

You mean the school paper?

Yeah, but somebody cut your

poem out of my copy before I got

to it. Just think, you already

have fans.

"Through My Window" by Clarissa

Darling is probably tacked up on

bulletin boards all across the

school district.

I seriously doubt it.

Well, I'd love to get an

autographed copy of it.

It's just so cool to be friends

with a prize-winning poet.

Hillary, you're the

runner-up. If it wasn't for me,

you'd be the prize-winning poet.

Besides, I really didn't put

that much into it.

Don't tell me that.

I totally agonized over my

sonnet, and it only got an

A-minus.

Ms. Winchpenny wouldn't

recognize a really good poem if

it bit her on the nose.

No, Clarissa. My poem just

wasn't as good as yours,

which is why it'd mean a lot to

me if you'd take a look at my

poem.

Hillary--

I'd love to get your

feedback. Here.

Are you sure you want me to

look at these?

I've been writing poetry

since I was little, but I was

really embarrassed to

tell anyone. I never knew you

wrote poetry, too.

About this poem.

See, I don't really know

anything about poetry.

You don't have to be modest,

Clarissa, and be brutally honest

with my work.

I'll only get better if I learn

to take criticism.

Okay. See, the thing is--

[thud]

That must be Sam.

Don't show anyone else my

poems, okay?

They're kind of private.

No problem.

I know how you feel.

Hi, Sam.

Hi, Sam.

Hi, guys. What's up?

Oh, nothing.

I better get going.

I think I'll take the window.

It'll be like exiting through

your poem.

I never thought about that.

Me, neither.

You should. This might be

a landmark window someday. Bye.

Bye.

Bye.

I've got to tell her, Sam.

Tell her what?

This poem, I can't go through

with it. Not only is it

embarrassing, but it's not mine.

But it was your idea.

The computer can't really think

or look through the window.

This poem has nothing to do

with me, Sam.

People put their souls into

poetry, not just their software.

I can't get up there tomorrow

and read this thing.

So what are you going to do?

I'm just gonna have to tell

everybody, that's all.

If Ms. Winchpenny fails me,

she fails me.

She won't fail you.

She didn't even fail my

limerick.

At least the limerick was

yours, Sam.

Yeah, my D-minus.

No, I'm gonna come clean.

First, I better let my parents

down easy. They're acting like

I just won a Pulitzer.

Hey!

I wonder if your computer could

write a whole novel.

Sam!

Just kidding.

Well, you don't want to

give it any ideas.

♪ Na na na-na ♪

Hi, Mom. What are you doing?

Oh, I'm trying to find my

collection of Lawrence

Ferlinghetti poems.

I think you'll enjoy them.

Mom!

I saw Ferlinghetti read once

when we were on vacation in

San Francisco, and he signed his

book for me. I never imagined

I'd be able to pass it on to

my daughter the poet someday.

Mom, I'm not really a poet.

Don't be silly, Clarissa,

your poem had a real

Ferlinghetti-esque quality to

it.

You sure it wasn't more of a

PC-esque?

PC? Was he one of

b*at Generation, too?

Maybe I left that Ferlinghetti

upstairs.

I feel like one of the Beats,

too. A deadbeat.

Clarissa.

Just the poet I wanted to see.

Dad!

This is a Remington Rand

typewriter.

Gee.

I bought it in a junk shop

when I was an undergraduate,

and they told me it once

belonged to Robert Lowell.

I always loved his poetry.

Oh. Great.

I'll have to read him.

Better than that, you can

write on his old machine here.

Oh, Dad.

I can't accept this.

See...

I used my computer to write my

poem.

Oh, no, no, Clarissa.

You can't write poetry on a

computer. No, this--

This has a much more hands-on

quality. Now, come on, give it

a whirl.

I found it.

I'm going to pass on my

Ferlinghetti to Clarissa.

"And they have strange

license plates and engines that

devour America."

Great poem.

You recited that beautifully,

Marshall.

Poetry is really a spoken art,

Clarissa. Have you been working

on your recitation?

Actually...

well...

no.

Well, you can practice on us

tonight.

Yeah, I can give you a couple

pointers.

Thanks, but don't you guys

have a salsa lesson to get to?

Oh, Marshall, I wouldn't mind

skipping it.

Oh, come on, Janet.

We only have a couple of days

to get our moves down.

And if we really salsacon

gusto,we can win a whole month

of free lessons. Come on.

My toes will pay you to quit.

Oh, come on, honey.

You ready?

One, two, three, four,

one, two, three, four...

I think it was a famous

French poet who said, "The worst

tragedy for a poet is to be

admire through being

misunderstood."

He must have had Ms. Winchpenny,

too.

♪ Na na na na-na ♪

So how'd it go?

Well, I got a new old

typewriter and a new old book of

poems.

I just couldn't tell them, Sam.

Did you try?

Well, I started to, but

they're totally in love with the

idea of having me as a new

Walt Whitman.

He wrote "Song of Myself."

I only wrote "Song of my

Software."

Well, the banquet's tomorrow.

You better memorize your poem.

Time is running out.

There's got to be some other

way out of this.

No way. You're representing

the whole school.

Maybe I'm already off the

hook. Maybe this was a computer

error. Maybe this is supposed

to be somebody else.

You've gotta calm down,

Clarissa.

It's not like you ripped it off.

Sam, this poem just isn't me.

This is all your fault.

You're the one that got me into

this, and you're gonna help get

me out of this.

me out of this. [chatting]

[chatting]

Whoa.

This place is a goldmine.

I'm glad I brought my flyers.

Oh, look, there's

Ms. Winchpenny.

Isn't this exciting?

Well, I do have knots in my

stomach.

Why aren't you glowing?

This is your night, you've

earned it.

There's my winning poet!

Welcome to your first evening

with the inner circle.

Knock 'em dead, Clarissa.

I knew you when.

Have a flyer.

You know, it takes two to tango.

Let me bring you to the head

table and introduce you to your

fellow scribes.

Everybody, this is Clarissa

Darling, my protégé.

Oh, you're Clarissa Darling.

I just loved the way you

rejected iambic pentameter in

favor of a nonlinear structure

for a post-nuclear age.

Well, you know, this being

the 's and all.

Personally, I feel poetry

should have more rigor.

Your poem was so sloppy,

so messy, so...human.

Oh. Thanks. That's me.

Oh, look!

We're having my favorite.

En-dive salad.

Actually, that's pronounced

"on-deev."

Looks like it's gonna be

a long night.

The symbolism in the early

John Barrowman reminds me of an

Etruscan bar relief in its

splendor and antiquity.

...intentionally and fully

impactful irony, typical of his

obscure style.

[snoring]

And now, for our final

speaker.

Ms. Winchpenny of Thomas Tupper

Junior High.

Oh, thank you.

It is my pleasure to introduce

this evening's grand

prize-winning poet,

Clarissa Darling.

[applause]

Congratulations, Clarissa.

As her teacher and poetic

mentor, I am a little biased,

but I can honestly say "Through

My Window" by Clarissa Darling

upholds the poetic adage,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty."

Miss Darling has dug down to the

bottom of her soul to give us

a deeply personal poem,

an unparalleled vision of

daffodils.

Clarissa, as a representative of

a whole new generation of poets,

please, share your poem with us

please, share your poem with us now.

now.

Thank you.

I know this means a lot,

but I have to be honest.

I didn't write "Through My

Window."

[all gasping]

I'd like to introduce the real

author now.

author now. [computer beeping]

[computer beeping]

Not that limerick boy!

No. My computer.

And there you have it.

The rhyme and reason of

the future.

Hit it, Sam.

[computer voice]

"Gray cube,

rectangular light,

cantilevered rainbows.

Sunshine open,

close, open.

Close glass."

I'm saying goodbye to my

prize and hello to my pride.

So we didn't win an extra

month of free lessons, but Shep

thinks your father has a lot of

potential.

Yeah, potential to be in

traction if I keep these

lessons up. Why didn't you warn

me that you were gonna do all

those, you know, fancy dips and

twirls and--

Oh, my old dancer self

suddenly came back to me.

Once we were out there, I just

couldn't help myself.

From now on, the only salsa

I want to see is on a taco chip.

I can't believe that Fred

Astaire wannabe wouldn't sell me

a franchise. He's just

threatened by my youth.

We can bet it wasn't your

dancing.

Don't worry about it,

Ferguson, if you're really

interested in dance, you can

keep on studying.

Actually, Mom, I prefer to

speak the universal language of

shuffleboard.

I hear there's big money in

retirement homes.

What's in the box, sport?

My Golden Quill.

I can't believe she gets a

prize for cheating.

What's your secret?

Now, Ferguson, everybody

agrees that Clarissa's poem was

an innovative experiment.

Yes, Ms. Winchpenny thought

Clarissa might be a true

pioneer.

Forget the b*at Generation, this

is the soggy disc generation,

right, Clarissa?

That's floppy disc, Mom.

And thanks, but I can't keep

this. I'm gonna give it to

a real poet.

Your computer?

Hillary.

Oh, that's very sweet,

Clarissa.

Well, let's just call it

poetic justice.

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na na na

♪ Na na na-na na

♪ Na-na na-na na na na ♪

[thunder]