Cryptic language dot com, backslash, give me a break! I have never been hash tagged. Am I then fresh meat? In reverse I am forward slashed or italic. When straight up I am pipe. That’s a pretty neat trick! To succumb to the character taken by heat Is to truly be taken aback for love’s sake.
The mere mention of back may put some on attack. But let’s face it. The backslash so backhandedly Slashes more than just web pages into their parts. In some ways, it brings romance and blending of hearts. Where else can it be useful? We could wait and see What the sky of creation shines forth with no lack.
It’s ironic the backslash was made for machines. Languages that they use give them means to perform All instructions in order to give a result That is slightly more accurate than the occult. An appropriate backslash will weather the storm. Life nor language is lacking by no given means.
We are big on comparisons. Why is this so? It’s because we’re creative in manifold ways. We’ll compare death to doornails and other objects That were never alive once in all due respects. Also mutton and dodo birds enter the phrase That describes death by simile for all to know.
But is death like the doornail? There could be some doubt. The doornail is a heavy thing, hard to the touch. It hangs out in tough wooden things where it feels best. Though it may rust in wet weather, still it is blessed With steadfastness and presence. It doesn’t do much But indeed it does something that we care about.
It could be that all doornails are living and well In their silent dimension where motion is less Than in other worlds. They might be having a blast. How would people perceive from our world that is fast? And to what mode of meaning do we acquiesce? If a doornail should die, how on earth could we tell?
To be born and be human, one must have a name And it is something given. We have not the choice In which ones we will take as we make our way here. If some knew what was coming, they would come in fear That the names they are given might make people voice Their obnoxious remarks, though benign just the same.
Linking faces to names… That’s what folks like to do. It’s the best way to keep track of people we know. A good face then can have a bad name, just as well As the mug that resembles the bat out of hell Can be blessed with a pretty name – one that does flow From the lips like a butterfly… or honeydew.
If your name is a cumbersome one, it may be That you also break mirrors remotely with ease. One who has both these assets is lethal at best And at worst a mere scapegoat that most would detest. A good name with a good face may quite often please. Names are not really faces, we all can agree.
The best part of the bison indeed is the spleen And the Pleistocene bison has one that is old. Good gets better with age. How I wish it were true All across the time spectrum, but that’s nothing new. All I want for right now is to kindly be told Where to go for some noteworthy bison cuisine.
I like Multi-Bean Pleistocene Bison Spleen Stew. It’s gestalt to the gizzard. It dons the ribcage With a cloak of endearment to utter nonsense. It puts chest on one’s hair perhaps at one’s expense. There is nothing that my silliness won’t engage Even if my behavior is but for the few.
And cooked in with my bison stew there must be beans In varieties plentiful for the best bowl. I can be nice to bison spleen by marinade Then when it’s fully stained pungency will pervade Through the consciousness with only play as the goal. Sometimes digestion favors peculiar proteins.
Why it’s called a dead language becomes grossly clear. I must be dead to use it, and have it use me. It did fall and has risen… this Roman empire Though I’ll not call it wholly a truth rectifier. It’s a speech of deception most arguably. That is due to its nature to promulgate fear.
A big company must have a tight justice scheme. In a two-party system, this works very well. Each will speak his dead tongue as the other will wince. Nothing ever translates but the need to convince All the parties of relevance how to make hell Something all can get used to, somewhat like a dream.
But it turns to a nightmare. Straight up the old crack Of our binary system, unlike souls repel. But outside is where I dwell. If death would have lost, G.O.P. would blast FBI and at all cost. Registration of right wings would triple as well. Carpe Diem! Next month there should be some payback.
This old bitch is cantankerous. Ain’t it a shame. Just a month out of warranty and she’s broke down. She’s as slow as molasses kept cold in the fridge. She’s got time for herself, but for me, just a smidge. She can trick and treat me as if I were a clown. If she drove me to violence, I’d not be to blame.
I won’t go to the Geek Folk. They will take her side. Like machine marriage counselors, they’ll give me guff. They will give me a list of some steps I should take To clean up her stack overflow. Give Me A Break! I’m a Poet. I know not of digital stuff. I will fidget with words, and in that, I take pride.
There are temp and %temp% folders that gather debris That they tend to hold onto long after their use. There are many bit pathways that clutter with crud of a binary nature that’s somewhat like mud. Earnest digital hygiene should greatly reduce Her most disgusting sluggishness effectively.
My digits can’t get messy just messing with keys And my well-fondled, hairless mouse by the firm hand. When I program a flushing, I’d like a swoosh sound To ensure that it isn’t just fooling around. I detest slow computers and can’t understand How they keep getting completely struck with disease.
Simple green plant of power so unique in taste Is what country can stand for. It can’t stand alone. All the world is a puzzle. Connected we are To the people around us as well as afar. Every misdeed recorded with someone’s smartphone Becomes newsworthy worldwide with infinite haste.
We with symbols subconscious reflect who we are Through the art we create taking popular form. Every culture is breaded by things that it eats And by how it sees others and how well it treats Those of other opinions that stray from their norm. Give a shout out to healthy greens and their bright star!
Though he can get defenskive when some folks complain That his English is wiggity-whacked into place So that young children listen, then practice mistakes. Why not clean up your act a bit for goodness sakes! When they then enter school… Oh, the problems they’ll face. But to ask you to change would cause you undue pain.
Take a tip from a sailor who yam what he yam. He ain’t axking nobody to butter his bread. This is all I can stanza, but not like before. I do love the nonsensical and could go for more. There is plenty more foolishness coming to head. Is the art of the artist to not give a damn?
If an actor is silent, why put him on stage? I have heard of non-speaking parts. That’s not the point. A good actor can get away with using mime And may get more across to folks in much less time. If performers don’t speak, their silence will anoint The observer’s attention so that he’ll engage.
Let that bring us to letters… the ones that go mute For a seemingly small set of words that are used. Silent letters are assy. In fact, they’re a pain, Though I’ve digested them with the ultra-mundane. Almost half of the alphabet has been excused Of a voice in some words. Are they there to be cute?
Well, they aren’t that adorable. Parsley they are On a plate of potatoes and succulent meat, Cast aside as the meal is completed, and then, gathered up with the rubbish to not be again. All the words that have placeholders playing discrete Would do quite well without them, and they’d leave no scar.
There’s a surplus of ‘won’t’ but there is no ‘wo not.’ Why did no one explain this, when I was in school, That there isn’t a ‘wo,’ really? It’s just a growth From a disjointed history. Were they not both, ‘Will’ and ‘Not,’ as a pair, solved by judicial rule, Then perhaps each raw litigant would have no plot.
How does ‘will’ become ‘wo?’ That’s what I’d like to know Not that it makes a difference. I could get by Without reaching the bottom of this inquiry. How the ruling for ‘won’t’ was reached I’d like to see. Who has judged this contraction the right one, and why? Did some scene in a courtroom take place long ago?
In Old English, the verb ‘willan’ meant ‘wish’ or ‘will.’ It was ‘will’ in the present and ‘wold’ in the past (?) Over centuries, too many forms of the two Were used widely. Versions appeared out of the blue. Some folks tried the word ‘willn’t.’That shit didn’t last. That is why frigging English is such a damned pill.
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.