Is there need for refinement of relevant speech When it comes to discerning the way of the dance? Often people are juking when there is no tune. They may pop and go weasel from midnight ‘til noon. It’s not done much in daytime. There would be the chance That the yellow box has not much in it to teach.
Yet it need not be yellow like some submarine. Give it any fun color, one vibrant and bright. All the music inside it is plug nickel free. Who would argue that that’s not the way it should be? Take your shoes off and park them for juke bug delight. Don’t expect the expected and already seen.
We are out on the town on a big ballroom floor. Some of us are quite clumsy. Some dance very well. While the music is playing, we all do our best Or at least suffer through it in well-tempered jest. If I trip on the dance floor, just ring a loud bell So that all will take notice and ask me for more.
Just a plain routine colon is who we have here And grossly unremarkable, to say the least. We’ve no polyps to probe nor no fissures to fuse. I am sure that the patient will find that good news. But to we, he’s a healthy unfettered young beast, When our job is to learn to make stuff disappear.
This benign seeming waste tube has nothing to teach. It’s just too frigging faultless. The textbooks, in awe, Would accept this wholeheartedly and with delight. As my students you will study stuff that ain’t right. Within any perfection, we’ll learn to find flaw. Then we’ll bombard the patient with intricate speech.
If you know one who has one that’s kicking his ass, Do a full workup on him, then send his ass here. If he’s got something nasty, we’ll make sure you know And throughout the semester, our knowledge will grow. We maintain that good medicine is based in fear. We’ll instill that in you through the tests you must pass.
Toward a shortage of mother meat blindly we trek With respect for the science. Reliance upon Quantum leaping achievements to solve world crises May result in our being grown and picked from trees. Of the pungent most processes e’er to see dawn Is soil spermatization to see what the heck.
If Subgeo Infiltro Zygotization Comes before we are ready, it may come to pass That we’ll treat one another much worse than our fruit. One might juice his poor brother or chop off his root, Though it’s no longer needed for tapping that ass. Men may masturbate into the grass in sheer fun.
They’ve been freezing the eggs. And for what? A new day In some post Armageddon where life is laid waste? Maybe that’s an idea that does make some sense Since, apparently, no major growth will commence As our mores remain so unwomanly based. What we think can make fertile much of what we say.
Don’t ask me to read scripture. I’d keep a straight face Out of programmed politeness, but way before long I would burst out in laughter, and that would be bad – Not for me but for others who’d thought I had had Quite enough drummed into me with upbringing strong. I am doomed to find humor in most any place.
It’s the way people talked then that tickles me so. They would think ours is funny, that is, I would hope That our difference in time and space is a clue To how vastly divergent we must be in view. We will hang ourselves righteously with enough rope Fed to us through a dark hole from so long ago.
It’s a humorous story. Don’t take thou my land…
I shall smite thee my wrath… Woe betide thee this day! Lord, I know it ain’t Shakespeare, but give me a break! At least half a page turner would keep me awake. As I’m laughing my ass off, do know it’s my way. I mean no disrespect. I hope all understand.
It’s a shame Ichabodra does not rhyme with stork. Otherwise, she’d be easy, like Sunday at dawn. She’s unshown to us, though, and that is by design. One who would write about her would have to define A worse person than Ichabod. Could such be spawned? Ichabodra is thickened like tough salted pork.
Every human vice known, Ichabod knows it well. But his counterpart gender-wise cares not the least. She’s a figment of my mind, so she is benign. Nowhere near Sleepy Hollow would she find divine. Rings of sausage to her is no sensible feast. And her temperament, at worst, is nothing to quell.
She’s escaped from calamitous scapegoatish prose Represented as satire of concurrent style. Ichabodra deserves not a page in a book That is of the same title. That Crane has a hook Well intended to keep women down for a while. I can find Ichabodra wherever she goes.
I could be Rumpelstiltskin or Pudding and Tang, Yet a friend of Luke Flightjacket is who I am. Way too many sci-fi flicks have taken the turn Toward placating sensation with much crash and burn. So whenever you find yourself in a big jam, Just owe me one, then owe me, son. This isn’t slang.
Some would say I’m a Jedi because I kick ass In the mystical lucid land on the wide screen. There are dark evil forces in your world as well. They take over your content and cast a deep spell. Do I slice through your rubbish or make things seem clean? If I do that, then my character isn’t crass.
And for this, you don’t owe me. Do know me to be At my best with my light saber held tight in hand, Strong and ready to offer diversion from hate. With some imagination, we may gravitate Toward the friendlier force, perhaps as had been planned. If you know me, then owe me your living carefree.
Things appeal to the wonk (who is happy to plonk Down his sanity for a mate as strange as he) That have not much bizarreness when pictured alone. When they’re seen as a pair, though, their union is shown To be as odd an odyssey, if such could be. Can it be held together, or will someone conk?
Every plate has a wobble. Each soul has a plate. It may be full or empty. Some skill it will take To ensure that momentum is constant and swift. When all balance quite well, what a wonderful gift! We may choose co-creation along with heartbreak, Yet, to do so without self is such a blind date.
If I find satisfaction within my own skin And not bother my partner with all that I lack, Perhaps I’ll come to know the odd one within me. Once that we are acquainted, my true self will be My own best source of guidance who will have my back. Anyone who is strange enough could be my twin.
Tally Ho! I’m the knee jerk. Although a day late, I know you will forgive me because I’m a fool. I react all the time – not just one day a year. Everyday I make merry to mitigate fear. I can be quite spontaneous but never cruel. I believe foolishness is the cure for most hate.
If you think this is silly, you’re right, I must say. I put much time and effort into what I do. Does it make people chuckle? That, I’ll never know. There’s no choice but to tread on and go with the flow. If my ass ran away from me, I’d have no clue, Because it dons no butt bell to give it away.
All I need is a good knee to utilize me. Every knee jerk depends on a knee to perform. I can spring into action, but never will sap The insanity dormant beneath the knee cap. It’s a pleasure to tap a good jolt to the norm From the heart of the knee jerk who’s daft as can be.
My old lady done left me and took both the cats… And the keys to the pick-up she don’t even drive. Maybe she hates my singin’ and playin’ guitar. She ain’t said nothin’ of it, at least, not so far. But she took off, and I don’t know how to survive. I’m one sick sack of suds among soul democrats.
What’s got into my baby I just cannot say. I’ve got lots of good TV and Coors Light on tap. My abode is a breadbox on big cinderblocks. I make porridge lukewarm for my fair goldilocks. Maybe she would have stayed if I’d learned to sing rap. Lord, wherever she’s gone to, I hope she won’t stay.
Like my dreams about coal mines, I’m left in her dust. So, I could do the bar thing, but that gets old fast. A big family reunion will do well for now. If I don’t find a girl then, I’ve lost it somehow. With a dickhead in office, my sorrows can’t last. Though he ain’t keepin’ promises, in him I trust.
Let us talk about Dodge again. It’s a nice place. Though I haven’t quite been there, nearby is OK. Though I think of disaster when this town is named, It has no more than elsewhere. So why is it famed As some hell to depart from and get far away? I do wonder if people there live in disgrace.
‘Get the Hell out of Dodge!’ It’s expressive, in ways, Of the chaos that comes with the limits of speech. We can color the notions of panic and fear With illogical thoughtforms that aren’t very clear. We adopt our weird sayings, though often we reach Some acute understanding amid verbal haze.
Dodge is fine, I would hope, and its residents too. They would have to have long gotten over this joke. When one needs to get out of someplace really fast, No particular city should ever be cast In a cloak of obscurity. We owe these folk Some relief from our warped ways. It’s long overdue.
I am not quite a hermit cat. I need no shell But the air that surrounds me in sparkling sunlight. If I blink my eyes thrice, I know they are still there. And my little ones love me, as for them I care. It is nice basking freely. My future is bright. I have taken this bird’s nest. Within it I dwell.
Did they leave rather peacefully – those that were here? Or did they see us coming and fly fast away? Heaven knows. My concern is with moving about In a world where I freely determine my clout. If they’d stayed, I’d have eaten them. That’s just the way I behave with my feathered friends. I am sincere.
For now, I am content. I do purr with the best From a humble twig dwelling that’s fit for a king. If I tweeted or meowed, they would both sound the same. Whether singing or winging, all life is a game. I do either or both as I do my own thing. I have not much regard for the feathered oppressed.
Thirty brief megaseconds is almost one year. But when looked at it this way, may there be a chance That I’d honor the short unit second much more Than I did just a few milliseconds before? I gain something from any conceived circumstance. As the world waxes metric, I’ve nothing to fear.
Three point six kiloseconds is what it should take For a car doing sixty to reach sixty miles. Yet our miles may be mindful and metered to tell All the world to get kiloed and cast in a spell. Miles are steadfast notwithstanding fervent denials. They may mop up the messiness metrics may make.
In six more decaseconds, this much can be said – Nearly five hectoseconds it takes for sunlight To traverse to the earth. This is significant. “But to whom?” one might ask. I would say, “To the Plant!” Eighty six point four kilos of seconds is right For a well measured full day. It’s now time for bed.
I do know why you’ve stopped me, dear officer, sir. Your expression of disgust speaks louder than words. Yet you need not concern yourself with all the smoke As this weed that I’ve got here is truly a joke. I have smoked lots of pot, but this stuff’s for the birds. Take a toke for yourself. I’m sure you will concur.
What is up with good weed these days? It’s hard to find And then when it is found one must pay due respect To the in-between bastards who break the shit down. I’ve been getting my stash, these days, from folks uptown. I’ve smoked three joints, by now, but alas… no effect. So, don’t bust me because I still have all my mind.
I’ve been smoking this shitweed. No good stuff have I And it’s been that way always. I haven’t felt great Since I visited Thailand some decades ago. Their good shit got me wasted and moving quite slow. So it’s not like I’m moving fine goods across state. This old rotgut for pot here is not worth the try.
My benign inner bean is a vegetable green In a dark shadow casing that likes to wave “Hi” On a stage to the people for whom which it knows Not enough about drama nor how to compose The best score for a stunning performance. I try To upstage it so that it can seldom be seen.
That is not a nice habit. My bean deserves light. That is what it is made of. It takes nothing less Than to be seen in brilliance when happy or sad. Yet the inner bean knows naught of good nor of bad. I have treated mine wrongly, and I must confess That I have a strong focus, now, on what is right.
I must let my good bean to direct every scene In this life given to me and through me from me As my inner bean knows what it is I desire It damned well can direct me that I may acquire Some experience acting and learning ‘to be’ In a non-ending playbill upon the grand screen.
I was sound asleep though I was covered in sweat As my body turned clockwise while wrapped in its sheets Of bewilderment as my soul went on a trip To that wonderful dreamland where I can equip Myself with all its graces and spiritual treats That my sleeping and dreaming most often beget.
I remained for a good while although there’s no time In a world of pure thought-form and nowhere to dump All the tension I’ve mustered throughout the long day. I found out there’s no dumping. I did disobey The most cardinal rule there: Do Not leave your clump
In this mental world. And their directive is prime!
I’ve been kicked in the rear end. So now I’m awake. I’m afraid to go back there or even to try. They might block my arrival and give me what-for. I’m not feeling distressed that I didn’t dream more. I shall start my day now as I breathe a deep sigh. I am not banned forever, thus I have my cake.
I believe that Young Jungians do well in Pyongyang. They are needed there just as much as in D.C. Any nation that has many does without war. Without war there’s no reason for spirit to soar To the height of indignance so vehemently That the world fears that it will go out with a bang.
The Young Jungian Pyongyangan, apart from the crowd, Holds the key to enlightenment through her belief That a hell made of fire is like one made of ice. We should come to consensus that neither is nice. And our time playing games here we know is quite brief. If we mushroom the planet, who’s left to be proud?
Were a Jungian Pyongyangan to beam here somehow With a message of peace and of wisdom ignored, Sit that Pyongyangan down and then open your heart. One might find that as people we’re not far apart. But make sure it’s a young one. Old ones make one bored. They are probably wiser, so give them a bow.
To the Hardware Department is where I will go To find all that I need and more than I could want. It’s a bright place of wonder and many delights. When a man has no hardware, he’s prone to start fights. And a man without tools is quite easy to taunt So show kindness to such a soul. He’s feeling low.
The requirement for a good screw occurs when In the mind there’s a yearning to see what’s out west. If perchance I should go there and not find my gold I would feel disappointed and somewhat controlled. When it comes to good hardware I will find the best At the Hardware Department where often I’ve been.
We all need a good screw every once in a while. It’s a function of nature to drive it in deep. Yet, the deeper it’s driven, the tighter the hold. Living with living hardware is meant for the bold. What one finds at the hardware store doesn’t come cheap And with proper alignment, folks can screw in style.
I am Manny, the meat man with many fine meats. I will slice through your town and deliver fine cuts Of the purest of premium beef parts there are. I’ll deliver the beef with no bull from afar Nor nearby so that all will have beef in their guts Or their butts depending on how well the soul eats.
I do carry whole beef by the half or hind quart Or by wedges with holes in them to give them air. I have beef by the barrel, if that be your shape Or by hormone replacement without the red tape. The whole world is a meat market, just to be fair. All I do is deliver. I’ll never run short.
“Where’s the Beef?”, then, should not be a question for you. I have advertised subtly through the ages. Beef is totally nourishing, high grade protein. It can make the soul hearty and make the heart mean. My whole beef isn’t mean. It’s practiced in stages. I should start selling veggies. Folks might like that too.
I’m one cat who is lovesick. My heart is in tune Well to your heart’s desires, whatever they be. Though I sing like a sick wheel and play pretty bad I am having the best time that I’ve ever had Pouring my heart before you and for all to see That I am at my best when I’m touched by the moon.
I’m in love with my loving. Not so much with you Though you happen to be at my center of gaze. I’m in love with my living and being carefree. There’s one purpose to living, and that is to be. Then whatever ensues will enlighten my days. I can share that with you but I can’t say, “I do.”
There are no strings attached to our living the bliss Of communing in harmony throughout our years. I do like you somewhat. Let’s just see how it plays. What will come of our joining, our hearts will appraise. May we forge our way forward and conquer our fears. We’ll begin such a journey upon our first kiss.
One can speak kinds of nasty by number or face Or by what makes the innards convulse for a blast. One can sit side by side on the toilet with friends Who, of like mind, are never caught wearing ‘depends.’ Stoolers would be for seniors who tend to outlast Most their body parts, as if they’ve won a lost race.
I’d hang out at a Stoolers with those of my kind Just to get a good dump on, and speak of it some. There are those who would listen and tell me their tales Of their challenges where constipation prevails… Either that or of issues that make the mind numb. Social Shitting, at present, may be hard to find.
I’m a stay-at-home shitter by nature, I guess. Would I mind sharing details of intimacy Among people who are always glad that I came? I’d not mind crapping with them, but don’t know my name. I’m for Stoolers, and some old folks might well agree That a place for group crapping would mitigate stress.
It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo. It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch. Though there are those who play it and do it quite well I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell. Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche In a world where such things can come out of the blue.
I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend. He is not from down under but from across town. Might he have some agreement with them on the side? Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried? Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down. There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.
So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do Who have talent for getting good sound to come out Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.
As most archetypes merge and evolve into more Well-submerged in subconsciousness, earth drives the soul Toward fulfilling its haughty desires unscathed Until true life departs oneself. Then one is bathed In a fog unbecoming a person who’s whole. Even though one is chawless, there’s much to adore.
I know nothing of chaw. I am in no debate. But by rogue curiosity I can possess Some faint insight benevolent to the chaw heart. Chaw is nasty to me. We are lightyears apart. I can see people packing it when under stress. When they’re chawless, they enter a psychotic state.
I’ve respect for the chawless and chawfull as well. Rather than keeping tongue in cheek, they keep a ball Of the foulest, most fecal of substances made. Yet, it’s not by my scale that another is weighed. Whence a chawpauper’s chance could be measured as small It’s the breath that might kill you because of the smell.
I do most things online. I get digital sex Through a modem equipped with touching technique That sends chills up my spine when I’m getting things done. When it comes to my laundry, my cycle’s begun. I upload it to DigiClean once every week. It downloads clean and folded, according to specs.
But sometimes I have trouble converting my load To dot lnd format. This causes me stress. I know Customer Service will lend me a hand. They are always so friendly, and they understand That although my ill applet has me in a mess I will soon have clean laundry within my abode.
Often times it’s the codec that culprits my cause. They get changed much too frequently due to the way Bits of data treat fabric, synthetic or real. They know nothing of texture. They can’t up and feel. A fresh codec for cotton does brighten my day. When one does laundry online, one obeys the laws.
Some men love to spank Hanky when Panky is steeped In some other dank business that’s not of their own. Seems all warnings of blindness one never will heed. He will keep on performing his most selfish deed. He will wrestle that monkey until it’s full grown Then he’ll yank it some more until it has bo-peeped.
I would think it sound nature to find full relief In whatever which way one must do what is done. No one has any right to climb anyone’s tree. One could train a good squirrel, though, to do it for fee. So whatever will put your hotdog in the bun. Do it wildly and proudly, and don’t make it brief.
One would float a bad boat with a lead overcoat So it’s not recommended, but all else is cool. And whatever will make that drunk chicken stand straight Give the thing a tight fistful, for passion won’t wait. Don’t get caught with your pants down. You’ll look like a fool. What can surf through one’s channels is done by remote.
Is there cause to cause mayhem though it may be June? I should consult the Wiki folk. Maybe they know. If I did a quick Google search perhaps I’d find All the months when there’s hem so that I’ll stay behind When those ripe for mayheming are willing to throw All their sense toward the seizure by light of the moon.
It makes sense that mayheming be done during May Just as long as the heming is kept up to par. If they outlawed June heming by April next year Then would late April heming produce lesser fear? Heming is much like J-walking. Some people are Good at crafting slick short cuts to get through their day.
I’m for heming in May – not in June or July Because warm months are those good for frolic and play. I may mayhem in September as it cools down Then partake of Oktoberfest while I’m in town. Seems there’s no other month for mayheming but May Though it’s outlawed in all months where Now does apply.
I’m your Fork Out of Dodge – a proverbial guy. I’m dramatic and forceful when it’s time to go. Any fork undercover is grateful to be Among those expelled first from Dodge most rightfully. It’s the city most thought of when getting to know The sensation of terror. The question is, Why?
Stuff can happen in any town. Why pick out one To become the example of bad scenes to leave? And since when does one’s safety depend on the fork? People fork off in Kansas as well as New York! Yet these questions are moot. I’d do best to conceive My own clear understanding. It’s better than none.
I’m a Fork on the run and I haven’t got time To be hanging around when the fan is turned on. If you haven’t a fork who is stranded in Dodge Then relax and partake of yourself a massage. I will fly by the night. I will not wait ‘til dawn. I am destined to grow toward a new paradigm.
Bright First Quarter Red Moon means it’s three months past June But the night isn’t scary one fourth of the way. It is one Fourth because that is all we can see. It’s the First by Cartesian count, some would agree. It is Red as earth’s mad shadow upon it lay. It’s the night of the goon versus that of the coon.
As the Red Ass gets fuller, let’s say to one half Is there anything possible that can be done To not notice what all goes on up in that sky And to not give a rat’s ass for not caring why? I can keep the mind sharp… the heart focused on fun. That quart butt in the sky is by now just a laugh.
I am not an astronomer. I just look up, Something natural to most when there’s sky to behold. I must know what I’m seeing by way of moon light Could be just an illusion. That seems about right. It is fascinating watching this moon grow old. My advice for it is, “Suck it up, buttercup!”
Abrahambra Cadabra, Magician at Large, Had her fans doing back flips to find out just why She dropped out of the limelight to everyone’s shock. Some had set up a vigil for prayer ‘round the clock. She’s emerged from seclusion to breathe a brief sigh. Had she taken some time for her soul to recharge?
This had nothing to do with her twin sister, Kate Whom she’d turned to a chicken for upstaging her. This had nothing to do with her romance with Keith Though she’d only bump ugly with him underneath. It turns out that her absence concerns her chauffeur. Is he now a pineapple? We’ll just have to wait.
Miss Cadabra cadabbles in mystical things As is true of her many fans throughout the land. It’s no wonder the land makes the fondest ado Of most frivolous happenings to delve into When the starker alternatives tend to demand Our attention toward hatred and all that it brings.
A sad state of affairs is the fate of us all When sound Vegetable Science is outright ignored. Though the onion is not an endangered species We will cry when we hurt them, and some make us sneeze. When one eats a raw onion, the mouth is a sword. The hot breath becomes bated and ripe for a brawl.
The sad plight of the onion can be rectified By our taking account of the facts that are clear. We must accept our vegetables for who they are. If we don’t listen to them, we set a low bar. And, our onions are competent, though they appear That they’re thin skinned and tend to not like being fried.
What I’m talking about here is nothing at all. It’s an exercise and a good tweak for the mind, Not a mind should be idle. That’s bad for the health. It should penetrate consciousness by way of stealth. A good mind that is nimble is one well designed For engaging life’s challenges – big ones and small.
It’s irrational! That’s the whole reason it’s square. Also known as two, raised to a stingy one-half, This root makes no sense. One can check as one sees Corner nooks seek the measure of ninety degrees. One can see that it’s true, as it’s easy to graph. The more normal the roots are, the more they’re like hair.
Ancient Greeks knew of this root and treated it well With so many damned proofs it can boggle the balls. Yes, this root is irrational. That can be seen In its unending pattern subjected to preen. Should we keep the irrational bound within walls When the two right above them can party like hell?
Keep a root that is square if it pleases the pants Off the people you pass in your daily affairs. If your root is quite rational, you’re good to go. If it’s perfect, you may want the whole world to know. That is, though, if the whole world really cares. It is not a good topic to start a romance.
Your Attention, my dear, I am thirty years old. Though my life had been peachy, I am in distress As it seems I’ve been cut out of castle life for My behaving so generously with the poor. I’ve been put out to pasture and I must confess That this story of mine has not ever been told.
Yes, my life in the grass is not easy, you see. All those nearsighted knights with their poles are a threat. I’d considered I’d bribe them so I’d graze in peace But the bastards can’t see well and they are obese. That I’m thin is a good thing. I’m willing to bet That my fortune is safe while it’s stashed up a tree.
But I cannot survive in the woods very long. And my dainty voice beacons your unanswered call. You will get compensation for helping me out. I am talking Big Moolah. That’s what I’m about. All you need do is send me your fortune – that’s all. It’s the kindest of worlds where we all get along.
What’s a fellow to do when he’s out for a screw And the merchandise mingling is too highly priced? Could one go undercover and act like a hoe Then transfigure among them before they could know That the fee they demand often feels like a heist? Men should stand up and shout! That’s what righteous men do.
When I want some quick ass, I am prone to bypass All the bullshit and trickery romance can yield. Give me meat on the fly. I’m a fast-moving guy. I will have my quick nookie – I will, do or die! But I won’t pay a fortune to be aptly healed Of my spurious passions that lead to impasse.
Bumping Ugly with someone you know can be fun. There’s no payment involved but the time that it takes To develop a nurturing, loving rapport. But, like top brow tycoons, poor dudes want nothing more Than some convenient action without the high stakes As the threat of inflation affects everyone.
It may be that your lug nuts are hot to the touch. If this happens too often, then it’s a sure sign That there’s too much heat passed to them through those brake shoes. So, lay off that break petal, friend, you’re bound to lose. But if that’s not the problem, you might be just fine. Though, it could be the tranny or maybe the clutch.
Say you don’t have a stick shift? Then don’t mind my last. You may think that I’m guessing, but that’s not the truth. If those lug nuts are hot, you might give this a try – Throw some cold water on them. They could be just shy As they’re caught greasy-threaded by such a hand sleuth Who is keen to take notice to heat they’ve amassed.
Don’t sneak up on your lug nuts as they do their thing. I don’t think you would like it were that done to you. Lug Nuts do have some sense of whenever they’re felt. Just remind them you care for them. They’ve never dealt With someone who will feel them just out of the blue. Do those lug nuts a flavor. Let them have their fling.
Now, it wouldn’t make sense if I pissed on a bone. Always through it, I say, is the best way to go. Do I have enough left to complete all my rounds? I’ve got piss on the trigger, and it knows no bounds. I seek out the un-christened. That’s all that I know. I’m a casual pisser with skills I could hone.
I can piss. I can sniff. I can dissect the air With my neural net nostrils that suck up the scent Of all things that have happened, and creatures gone by. I must update my ‘wall’ here. The last has gone dry. I must re-mark the places where time I have spent. The fine art of good pissing leaves me without care.
I can piss in mid trot and will not miss a spot. There’s a lot of my pissing I’ll do on the fly. There isn’t a thing I won’t piss on because I’m a Master of Whiz. You may bid me applause. If I piss on your day, there’s no reason to cry. I’m a dog, for darned sakes, and I just piss a lot!
Bow-wowful the canine who’s steak bony blue When I’m left with a play thing instead of some meat. When humans want grub they don’t gnaw on some toy. They have all kinds of meat that they cook and enjoy. I am not a proud dog. I will dance for a treat. I could steal for a meal before anyone knew.
I will beg and act silly ‘til blue in the face. If my fellow dogs saw me, I’d surely turn red. But it’s worth it to get a good bone I can chew. I hang out for a handout from the barbecue. My work isn’t hard, though. Indeed, I’m well fed. I like keeping a few bones in my hiding place.
Would you condone a dog with a steak bone? Never mind how you answer. Just see it my way. I’d enjoy a thick porterhouse hot off the grill. I would bark, “Alleluia,” if that be your will. You people-folk stuff your fat faces all day! The least you could do is to not piss and moan.
Come be dithered forlorn! There is joy to be borne In a jar with its lid off in light of its load. With the mind far at ease from the swinging trapeze Any song sung in series will certainly please One who favors the face of the figmented toad. There is pink think in linking jackhammers to corn.
Now, that makes no sense. I’d do well to dispense With the sentinel sent to torment fellow food. If my sentiment centers on seaweed all day Then can Mikey stop eating to come out and play? There’s no contention to mention my mood As the grip of the hippo remains quite intense.
What the Hell am I saying. Have I lost my mind? Not a giblet bespeaks what a cucumber knows Not a fish in a glass house will do windows. Still, I could get a stray crayfish to lend me its will. As the seawater whistles is how the seed blows. Kick the can for kind karma and blissful behind.
Those who live in Where Ohming where ohming is done On the fly and at random and much of the time, Know resistance that’s measured can sometimes be high. The electrons, in those cases, toil to get by. Yet, they practice law freely in their paradigm Where the practice of ohming is done just for fun.
One who wouldn’t dare ohming, Where Ohming would scorn To the hilt, and it matters not who that one is. Being ohmed is a right every circuit must share. There is such joy in ohming that none can compare. It’s as easy as aiming and taking a whiz. That’s why folks in Where Ohming can toot their own horn.
Every place in Where Ohming where voltage may be Is a whole separate issue electrons must face As no one wants to measure the voltage that’s there. Folks are so used to ohming that they wouldn’t care That some voltage is present and wants to embrace. Those who live in Why Volting would surely agree.
Have you heard of the homeless? Then give me a chew. I know much about hunger. I have it all ways. From cellar to ceiling and all in-between. I will eat in the dark where I shouldn’t be seen. I chow down like a mother with every due praise. I enjoy making babies, and not just a few.
Science says that I’m sexy. It flatters me none. And besides, I can do it however I please – Upside down in a trance in a crevasse somewhere. I control my whole tribe with my scent in the air. We don’t treat our men harshly. We’re much like the bees. We like screwing and building and having much fun.
But we do have to eat, and our diet is wood. We could go for particle board for a while In the houses of people who tend to buy cheap. Yet when that stuff runs out, our commitment is deep. We will find what we’re after, and do it in style. So complain all you want. It won’t do any good.
Some books are well read like the readers they own. They don’t lie around dormant nor do their soul mates. Some books stand amid dust upon vacated shelves. Since their readers don’t read, they are left to themselves To embelish what every good book advocates: The desire of folks to explore the unknown.
Some books like to run, but no book likes to swim. It’s a matter of preference what books like to do. We don’t need to work out, but it helps, just the same. We’re as different as snowflakes. We each have a name. In fact, we’ve a few names, each giving a clue To our true inner nature without pseudonym.
Some books come in yellow… Not all, by the way. We’re a multiple mixture of chroma and hue. Most folks call me Ron, and I run super-fast. I’m the mild-mannered type. I’m not here to kick ass. I am Ron Running YellowBook. That name will do. It’s as weird as all get-out and easy to say.
Frolicking Folksicles flaunting for fun Among those who might eat them must take balls of ice. And they’re colored, enhancing the eater’s delight. Were they black and white only, it wouldn’t seem right To consume them. Just looking would surely suffice As one’s licking gets boring when all’s said and done.
Folksicles firmly propend to make peace. It’s a principle pinnacle to their affairs Of the heart and the mind and the spirit within. With abundance of slurp, there is no need to sin. There isn’t much else one could suck. But who cares? If it weren’t for bright Folksicles, warring would cease!
What gets folks in a pickle, most Folksicles say, Is the way we lose focus and blither head on ‘Til we sensate the melting – Folksicle in hand. If our mess is sufficient, we voice our demand That the sun should take cover – at least until dawn So that Folksicle eating will yield no dismay.
Utensoids United in condiment space Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round In its own starry kitchen where space does abound And without incognito, they’re easy to find Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.
Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools. Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.
The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all. Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult. If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent. You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant. If you handle it well, good will be the result. If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!
I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure. If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same Will recover in time to return to the game Of living life loony. How goony the space Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.
It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense. Many pieces of silly must fall into place So they dance about smartly in demented minds. I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds. I would be one if not already the case. So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.
Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word. A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul. There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal. Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird. It is how we make peace before war ever starts.
Daho was made a state of the union one time. It took pride in infinitive providence such That its residents felt everything was just fine Until when they took to a much better design To include all the attributes grammar likes much All to exhibit representation sublime.
A verb does have its voice. It also has its mood. And on good days a good verb will sing a good song, So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do. Do not give a verb guff; it will predicate you To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong. Any verb can get nasty and treat someone rude.
So now back to the case of Daho. As we know, To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past Tends to make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well So they came up with number and person to tell All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed. It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go…
I-Daho, You-Daho; He, She and It-Dahos… Such is life on the west side where singulars stay. On the east side there’s We-Daho; They-Daho too. Since they’re plural, they get along fine with the You. It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.
We could visit the hotspot where old Humpty dumped Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze. We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick. We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees. Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!
What could be more deserving of travelers to be Than to map a vacation from end until start With every detail most recursively planned So that all in the family will understand That vacating is not a pure science, but art And the spaces we visit may well set us free.
We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake. But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right back here. We could cancel our plans and then live without fear. We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make. Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?
Every t that’s electric should cross itself well Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs. Every printer that prints other than in 3D Has a head that needs wiping. Its will is to be Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.
Every i that is manual has had its day Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come. Someday soon a device will have nary a button. There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton. Every i that exists will have class – not just some. They will dot one another without much delay.
I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl. She presents not a problem when I am offline. But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face. It thinks I am the bozo. I’m prone to disgrace As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.
There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you. Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat, I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at. What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue. With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.
There isn’t a fever that one could display That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid. But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance To any tune practiced and very well played. Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.
If you’re a believer, do know this is true: There will always be room in your heart for a rat. Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind So to any retriever he’s easy to find. One may think one may have healthy living down pat But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.
Folks who craft lousy music that puts folks to sleep Ought to have recognition for work that’s well done. For work that is fair, many juices will flow As with all tender meat. Every artist should know. How does composing rut music constitute fun? It’s along the same lines as someone counting sheep!
There’s a tune that is played on most government lines While waiting on hold for the next of avail. It starts off real slow, then it starts to get weird, As my consciousness seems to have been commandeered. It takes talent to craft at the pace of a snail With such melodic ease in the strictest confines.
This genre of music should have its fanfare. Folks who write and arrange this stuff should be exposed. Big pharma may scorn them, but that shouldn’t be Any reason to keep them from all who agree That annoying music is purely composed To keep all desensitized so we don’t care.
No need for my mind. I left that back on earth Where all other minds mingle just as they may. I don’t need a space suit when I’m flying high. I’m at home in my own world where planet’s whiz by And the alien creatures I hang with all day Have considered me family ever since birth.
What on earth was I thinking? It matters not now Because if I remembered, I’d be there again. Besides, I’ve a new way of getting around Feeling just enough gravity to not get me down. I’ve a lady who’s made of moon dust for a friend. We’ll be Adam and Eve, and we’ll raise us a cow.
Whatever’s afoot back on earth is no news Because one doesn’t use social media here. My mind may seem open and playing the part But do know that I’m elsewhere, perhaps with my heart. That being down there will someday disappear. I am paid up to date on dementia’s dues.
When one talks about signs, there are myriad kinds. We’re accustomed to trust them to say the right thing. But when cruising while high, should the cops be alarmed? If you get them to smoke some, will they be disarmed? No, the cops are not privy; to justice they cling. They will quote you the riot act. Don’t cross their minds!
I don’t drive around high, but high drives around me. It’s a challenge I meet on the road every day. When I get behind someone who’s driving as if Someone said, “Sir, prepare to drive over that cliff,” My question is, why is this jerk in my way? Is he seeing, perhaps, something I cannot see?
Keep an eye on what’s happening ‘round you all times Is some simple advice for those high on the road. But it’s also for others who must get around. With you fools on the highway, I’m helpless and bound. Get your asses in shape. Kindly lighten my load. In the past I have shot folks for much lesser crimes.