A Yak, A Crow, and My Heating Woes

When the heating breaks down in the dead of winter, you call a repairman. But what happens when that repairman brings a yak, a crow, and demands flaming beet juggling? Absurd hilarity awaits!

Inspired by the writing prompt for a concept of ‘Jumping through hoops to get the heating fixed,’ (from the Half Baked Prompts account on Bluesky), this poem is a frosty tale of absurd tasks, fiery vegetables, and an unforgettable quest to survive winter’s chill. It’s silly, it’s surreal, and it might just make you appreciate your thermostat a little more.

 


 

The frost snuck in, bold as brass,
Cracking the windows, icing the glass.
The thermostat groaned, then sputtered and clicked,
And announced with flair, “I’m officially ticked!”

So I called in a pro—a guy named Joe,
Who wore a sombrero and carried a crow.
“Fixing your heat?” he said with a grin,
“Hope you’re ready, ‘cause the hoops begin!”

First, he tossed me ten flaming beets.
“Juggle these first, while standing on your feet.
Then spin in a circle, chant ‘Turn up the heat!’
And don’t let a single beet touch the street.”

I burned my fingers, scorched my pride,
But somehow I managed—barely survived.
Joe clapped and cheered, his crow squawked, “More!”
Then he pulled out a yak from behind the door.

“To fix your boiler,” Joe casually said,
“You’ve gotta leap through a hoop of bread.
Not just any bread, it’s baguettes I need,
And the yak must agree—he’s the referee.”

I tracked down the yak at a thrift store booth,
He grumbled and sneered, but he spoke the truth:
“Bring me a sack of knick-knacks and string,
And I’ll hold the hoop like a proper king.”

So I found the loot, paid the yak’s demands,
And leapt through baguettes with shaking hands.
Joe gave a nod, the crow gave a bow,
But of course, he wasn’t done—not now.

“Next up,” Joe smirked, “is a task for the bold:
Sculpt me a swan from this winter air cold.
Then outdance my grandma—she’s got moves, you’ll see.
She’s the queen of the waltz, and she’s ninety-three.”

I shaped the air swan—well, sort of, it worked,
Then tangoed with Grandma till my hip nearly jerked.
She spun me around, then dipped me with flair,
And I landed in triumph on a wobbly chair.

Joe whistled and grinned, the crow cawed, “All done!”
He pulled out a wrench, and I thought, “What fun.”
Then with a twist and a turn, my heat roared to life,
While Joe tipped his hat—and so did his wife.

But wouldn’t you know it? The second they left,
Summer rolled in like a fire-breathing pest.
And there I was juggling those flaming beets,
Dreaming of frost and the cold concrete streets.

(c) Eric Montgomery

 


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