This was, no doubt, from Frost's famous "Beavis & Butt-Head" period.

Some say New York will end in fire,
Some say with ice.
From what I know of this new Snapple
I feared it would doom the Big Apple
But if that truly were its aim
Then, seeing streets o'erflow with slush
I'd then say, if this were a game,
"The ice is mush;
A point for flame."

Alternately,

Whose pop this is I think I know
It's melting on the city, though.
They can't blame me for stopping here
to watch their promo's crimson flow.

Whose pop this is I think I know
It's melting on the city, though.
They can't blame me for stopping here
to watch their promo's crimson flow.

My little poodle must think it queer
To stop without the chauffeur near
Between the MoMA and a frozen cake
The darkest asphalt of the year.

He gives his hind leg up a shake
To ask if his urination is at stake.
Music from the DVD porn stores so deep
I wonder if my boobs look fake.

The run-off is revolting, dark and steep,
But I have promises to keep,
And day spa appointments to go before I sleep,
And day spa appointments to go before I sleep.

Mike, I swear, I would NEVER have thought those boobs were fake if you hadn't mentioned it . . .
;)

My long red hook and ladder's sticking to the street
With sugared swill,
And there's a dumptruck that they didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
blocks I didn't hose down here somehow.
But I am done with Snapple-cleaning now.
Syrup of corn fructose is on the night,
The scent of strawberry: I am knocking off.
I cannot scrub the kiwi from the height
It reached upon the second-story glass
That looked down on this advertising boff
A popsicle built by a stupid ass.
It melted, and they let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to work before it fell,
And I could tell
What shitty turns my day was gonna take.

Something there is that doesn't love a pop,
That sends a summer day to make it melt
And CNN, and men with firehoses,
And a plague of flies in Edison, New Jersey

I met a traveler on the downtown A
Who smelled of kiwi and of strawberry;
"At 17th and Park upon my way,
A mirage in the sun there came to me,
A vision deliquescing in the day.
Its architects rode proud from Edison,
And boldly did they raise their shining props,
Yet in one long slow slurping came undone,
And falling banners whispered from the goo,
'My name is Snapple, I am Tops in Pops,
'Look up, Italian ices, and despair!'"
The firemen look down. Outside the zone
Of Nike tracks and sticky outerwear
The flacks who spoke of boo-boos walk alone.

The ice cake falls apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere Snapple is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and just downgradient
The pedestrians on 17th are slushed.

...and McGonagall gets his word in as well:

O, the giant ice pop of Union Square!
The Snapple Beverage Corporation did set it there
On the twenty-first of June, a day in New York as hot as any:
They wished it to make the Guinness records-book, and be admired by many.
But alas! This ill-conceived slab of frozen drink
Was improperly refrigerated, and made the streets run sticky and pink.

Along the New Jersey Turnpike the ice pop was transported,
But any wise man could have seen that the mission should have been aborted.
For no refrigeration was provided on the trip through New Jersey,
And the rays of Old Sol beat down without mercy.

And as the crowds gathered to watch the popsicle be set up in the street,
They saw it melt into crimson sludge beneath their feet.
Many a New Yorker was stunned and amazed
To see Union Square West covered with this sugary glaze.
No one who was there will soon forget, I think,
The sight of the gutters running with flavored drink.

Snapple's P.R. people attempted to give the event a spin,
But photographs show very few of their faces with grins.
"All publicity is good", they opined in desperation,
But they returned with the ice pop to Edison, a fate akin to damnation.

So good people, remember the fate of the ice pop of Union Square,
And tempt not the might of God and nature as though on a dare.
For any child knows the fate of a popsicle in the sun,
And when the popsicle is gigantic, the streets with slush will run.
To make such an endeavor so near the solstice of summer
Is the height of Man's folly, and will surely end as a bummer.

Let us go then, you and I,
While a slush pop upon a truck does lie
Like a patient etherized upon a table.
Let us go through certain sticky-covered streets,
The muttering retreats
Of Snapple girls unhappy with their jobs
And PR flacks who put dynamite under everything
And blow it up, then pour gasoline on the wreckage
And burn it down
Before running it over with a bulldozer.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Guiness records, y'know?

In Union Square did Snapple brands
A stately pleasure-stick decree
And then the sticky river ran
Through feet of cat and dog and man
Down to the Battery.

And all who heard should see it there,
And all should cry, Beware! and wail!
Her pouty mouth, her pony tail!
Take a photo of her twice,
And watch your step across the street,
For she hath ate the berry treat
And drunk the melted Kiwi-ice.

I have melted
the pop
that was in
Union Square

with which
you were probably
breaking
a record.

Forgive me
it was viscous
so sweet
and so cold.

Rose Fox - ROTFLOL!!

I agree with Lenore. I type LOL from time to time but seldom actually laugh out loud. This time I did.

I thought that I would never wade
Through slushy kiwi-berry-ade.
A lake of sticky, stinky goop
Loosed by some adman-nincompoop;
A lesson harsh in failed cryonics
That ruins your Manolo Blahniks;
A wave of pinkly twinkly slurry
From which the old and young must hurry;
Upon whose ooze the bikers crash;
Who turns to yuck a pile of cash.
I can sling a verse, I guess--
But Snapple makes a stunning mess.

Whose fault this is, I think I know.
They're over in the Village, though.
They will not see me fallen here
Among the traffic, stopped and slow.

Rose, you forgot "This is just to say" at the beginning (I just looked up the original), but I too LOL'd so you're forgiven.

Let them bring in giant mops.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice pops.

Rose's is good, but I like Alex Cohen's the best. I've always been a Romantic.

MKK--and you people are STILL making me laugh dammit

Me up at does
out of the truck
quietly Leak
a sticky slush

still who melting
is asking What
have i done that
You wouldn't have

...the more of these I write, the more profound they get! Or seem, anyway.

A slightly different take on Eliot...

The Making of Pops is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your summertime games.
Whoe'er thought this up was as mad as a hatter,
Not thinking of melting sludge filling bike lanes.
First of all, there's the way that you freeze ice pops daily,
Such as chucking them into a freezer for hours.
Or using a liquid that will freeze extra-quickly,
Before the June sun the experiment sours.

CJR Daily's take on the original coverage is here:
Giant Popsicle As Rorschach Blot, or "how to understand the fundamental difference between the New York Times and the New York Post."

The old snapple slush melts downwards with nary a stop.
I can remember when it was a Pop.

snapsicle is a snapsicle is a snapsicle is

never mind.

Snapple, Snapple, melting quick
In the Square of flavoured slick,
What infernal hand or eye
Could krush thy fruit confection’ry?

In what massive kinda Apple
Drips the juices of thy Snapple?
In what vein flows your sweet blood?
What the tongue dare lick the crud?

And what gizmo and what kit
Could we persuade to blow up shit?
And when thy juice began to rush,
What dread gloop and what dread mush?

What the monster? What the truck?
What New Yorkers shouting “fuck”?
What lame freezer? What vile heat
Gave poor commuters sticky feet?

When the sun has sprung its trap
And doused Manhattan in this crap
Did He grin His work to see?
Did He who krushes lambs krush thee?

Snapple, Snapple, melty plop
Drenching fireman, drenching cop,
Even if a planet blew up,
Could it match your PR screw-up?

(... I apologise. Partly to Blake, partly to the world at large.)

adjusts black tie, raises microphone

Pedestrians in a pinkish goo,
Traffic snarled all to heck.
Drivers curses rise up to the blue
While firemen hose down the wreck.

Everybody knows that popsicles melt down in the sun,
Especially in the summer heat.
But PR drones looking for a little fun
Fudge the lifetime on the spec sheet.

They know that news reporters are on their way.
Loaded with cameras and press kits and hair spray.
And every news consumer's going to see
Their logo splashed high above the fray.

And so I'm offering this simple hint
To advertisers pointy-haired or not.
Though it's been said, many times, many ways,
Ice melts when it gets real hot.

(With appropriate apologies to Mel.)

Mike, I swear, I would NEVER have thought those boobs were fake if you hadn't mentioned it...

Hey. Hey. My eyes are up here.

What the tongue dare lick the crud?

Best line ever

To the Angry PR Flack

Had we but chilled it more than a trice,
This Snapple, Lady, would be ice.
Folks would sit down and marvel at
The ice-pop's size and weight and that
It exceeded Guiness's records so
And crowds of fans would come and go.

An hundred papers would tell the story
Of Snapple's home-run PR glory.
A PR hit to rise above
The daily natterings of love.

But at my neck I seem to feel
Sun's fiery arrows shot to steal
The icy-pop's refreshing cool
And soon the pop will be a pool.
Kiwi lands upon the boots
Of cranky businessmen in suits.
And all around the square will be
Sticky bits of strawberry.
The ice-pop shall no more be found,
Except the gunk that's on the ground.
Union Square's a fine and public place,
Too bad the egg is on your face.

Now therefore, while the warming pop
Is still a stick of frozen glop
And before your smile turns to frown
And all the drink is melted down;
Let us lick it while we may
And now, no matter what fools say
Rather at once our pop devour
Before the freezer loses power.
Let us roll up our sleeves and all
This sweetest drink will be our call.
Thus, though we cannot make the sun
Not melt the pop; we will make it run.

Sing hey! for the bath at the close of day
that washes the sticky glop away!
The PR flacks all gladly sing:
A short memory is a glorious thing!

A couplet from my favorite Robert Frost parody - alas, it's all I remember:

My little horse will think it queer
To see me drink domestic beer.

tom p: Did He who krushes lambs krush thee?

*finger snaps*

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