Now, have I let anyone down just lately? …Today, last week, or anytime soon? Someone said someone said I’m the one to call. ‘Guess I asked for it; I’m “the jim,” after all. ‘Seems I frequently manage to appear the buffoon. Had it I to do over, I’d present myself stately.
I do manage, it seems, not by contract or pact, To promise a thing I might happen to do, But by temperament tuned to please people at will. It’s implied I’ll do all that’ll show off my skill, And as I do so I most certainly screw My chances of keeping my pride intact.
“Up the Yin Yang,” folks say when they want to express A massive quantity of what is concerned. It’s a curious quip… somewhat rude to the ear. It implies that the Yin and the Yang disappear When up them, there’s something each has not learned. If there’s guilt up my own, I know not to confess.
But if it’s demanded, I’ll comply ‘cause I’m true To the tune of expressing just who that I am. There’s no apology; no offense was committed. Any pretense of shame for me’s not well fitted. The archetypal sacrificial Lamb Clears the Yin Yang to engage the Wazoo.
The sun is in Libra; my twelfth house is a mess. There’s a tight square between Saturn and Mars today. Uranus is transiting; mine may be as well. When my life seems a pain in the drain I can tell Something’s up with my Mercury to my dismay. Well, it’s retro; it’s not time to fuss or to stress.
Well, ok, so it’s retro; just what does that mean? One does not go to banks nor the baker for meat. For a horoscope natal, I’ll consult the best. I once tried on my own, but I gave it a rest. Just for matters of mettle I am willing to greet A fine Element Guru whose insight is keen.
So, dear lady of old, elemental and sweet, As you listen to what lays your head to its side I do wonder what dreams of your future hold true Today, as the world now takes firm hold of what’s new? I am there where you were, and in that I take pride. My nostalgia are roses to lay at your feet.
Like small globules of quicksilver live on a stage My fond memories of simpler times coalesce Eventually returning to one big ball With my heart beating through the ordeal of it all. Yet the times that will come, I do honor and bless. In that, I endeavor to embellish the Sage.
Sometimes one’s alignment one needs to align. It happens because there’s just stuff in the air. The ether is filled with such static and noise. It also has much to endow one with poise As we choose which stuff we should give the most care. Be guided by feeling and then by the mind.
The electromagnetic cosmos is filled With every thought ever thunk… every feel ever felt. With each moment we’re conscious we add to the flow Of inter-cosmo-electrical plasma although Sometimes we can’t deal with the hand we’re dealt So it also includes every will ever willed.
Thought makes for feelings, then feeling for thought. The two leapfrog within a parallel tank. The resulting vibration from this interplay Has a frequency matching our mood for the day. For all this, whom do we have to thank? It’s our own blessed selves wherein resonance is sought.
We each have a knob or a touch screen or such Where we adjust our feelings and thoughts at will. When we do so, we tune into something inside That lets us know there’s nothing we’re denied. The station we choose will not send us a bill. If it does, it surely won’t be very much.
Some group once suggested We should do it in the road. And if you want to show the road you’re courageous Why not it do in color? You’ll be waxing outrageous. Upon you attention will be bestowed. Let your head be invested.
Cans need breaks every once in a while Like the tall dark ones who stand up on their own. Just sit your narrow black cans on the ground. Make a line so folks know you’re not messing around. And smoke your asses ‘til the cows bemoan. Once cans get stoked, they be smoking in style.
Every break is a take on a different scene And a smoking one sure takes the dull off the day. When color’s included, life’s a beautiful rhyme. It don’t have to be rainbow; all colors are prime. Show your true color now; all people should play Every break time, even those that are in-between.
If you’re rather young and quite new to smoking The Surgeon General has made it quite clear. Don’t smoke in the middle of a busy street. Your can could get kissed by a tire’s cleat. You don’t want your break to at once disappear. It’s been a long time coming. You know I’m not joking.
‘Left the ship yesterday. ‘Hadn’t been ashore since this time last week. The stardate’s been logged, now my vulcanoid half Beams back aboard to join the human in laugh. My left wing gorilla joke meet the crowd bleak. I am back home to stay
‘Til the same time next week lest I go out for food. I so much rather to keep to myself Only because I can’t know how folks take My attempts to make funny. Folks seem not awake. Would I don a pink zoot suit and dance like an elf? Screw you, club! I don’t like it when you’re so rude.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what you folks say either. You chatter and bicker and make a mess of my mind. You asked me to treasure; that much is true. Why not treat me as if I have a clue? Our karmas are linked; our souls intertwined Therefore I appreciate a week long breather.
I take my heart serious; I’m a sensitive old bitch. My ship is my Fortress. I leave it with pause. If I had a crew, I would delegate missions. I’d avoid erroneously derived contritions. I don’t expect anyone to give me applause But, damn it, laugh when I say! I am not a sales pitch.
A plane is as sane as a blueberry stain. Measured backdrop caress inter-parallelled lines In a land where most variables got their names From the Greeks whom are wise at playing such games. Three planes form a corner and from it inclines A hypotenuse dotted of structure urbane.
A line is one kind of a thing on the mind Of the gluttons of absolute order of things. All space is a place where a Theta can live And perhaps raise a family, then forever give A reason for mind to perk up and take wings And pursue all unknowns like a bat in the blind.
The pursuit of Theta’s no quest for the meek Especially, of course, if that Theta is Fuchsia. There’s just something about girl Theta; it’s true. I’ll chase that fine fanny ‘till my brain turns bright blue. Though just a bit radical, this all’s not to confushia Well-Infected, I’m a recursively factored antique.
It’s about time a fool might wonder why People chose the numerals one through twelve. Yet the answer comes clear if one doesn’t research. As the cuckoo bird beams from its house to its perch Tweeting each hour’s chime, there comes reason to delve Into possible use of that weird number Pi.
Folks have done this before, so it ain’t nothing new. I’m no math geek, but this strange faced clock is a trip! Its circumference empatterned with all versions of Pi No one could be more bedazzled than I Would the bonging, then tweeting, its character strip? What mind would come up with this out of the blue?
A circuit is three hundred sixty degrees And equals twelve hours sliced up in a way That puts Pi on a pedestal where it may find pride As to how to tell time with it’s hard to decide. When it’s four Pi over three should I then start my day Or perhaps two Pi after, to begin it with ease?
Light travels at the leed of spight And sound, pretty much, at the seed of spound. Forecast for tonight is it’s gonna’ get dark But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for remark And by the time the sun comes back ‘round Light returns surely; things are always alright.
A farmer once traded his corn for a kite Though a special kind where he could fly back in time Then fly back again with some knowledge on hand To steer clear of mistakes and increase yield for his land. He did so, of course, and did not pay a dime To do it all, thus, he was filled with delight!
A beggar once begged a man for his beard. It made sense to ask since the beggar had none. The man said, “Why not? Let us go to the barber. You’ll have your transplant, and I will have harbor In realizing facial hair ain’t always fun… You would know that yourself if you weren’t so weird.”
Little lambs do eat ivy and girl deer all the oats. There’s eating competing and food fest galore. If a dude don’t eat didly, there’s a fatter of mact! He may be allergic to didly, thus his judgement’s intact. If you come bearing didly and knock on my door I’ll welcome you gladly. That’s how my cork floats.
Dear fly came by Wasn’t much on its mind It just snuck in to visit a while Perhaps to assess the funk in my style Or maybe just to unwind And cop a sigh
Dear fool am I Engulfed in my madness Tizzied about and engaged in my Thing Sharpening what my focus might bring I often find gladness In what I try
You’re cool, dear fly But please don’t get in my face Don’t buzz nowhere near me; the sound causes terror. Yet I know that’s my menses; with you there’s no error. Mind your own business and keep your place. Avoid my eye!
Food don’t need MO-DI-FI-CATION. God don’t need your help at all. Nature’s doomed to your ‘salvation.’ Doctor, leave them genes alone. HEY! DOCTOR, LEAVE THEM GENES ALONE! All in all you’re just another reason to moan. The laws you screw with are not your own!
Life don’t need investigation. What you do is cheat the game. Mother Nature’s wrath will haunt you. When She fights back who’ll take the blame? HEY! DOCTOR, LEAVE THEM GENES ALONE! All in all you’re like a pit bull on a bone. You’ll surely reap what you have sown.
If a better world’s your expectation Then why so few with much control? Can’t the world’s own population Solve its problems as a whole? HEY! DOCTOR, LEAVE THEM GENES ALONE! Human nature is so unnaturally prone. There will come a time when we will atone.
There once was a time (or perhaps there was not, Since time is a thing mostly gods understand) When there were no time pieces of any kind. These were times spent in ignorance of workday grind There was much time for loving for woman and man. People lived in the now, thus time couldn’t be bought.
Throughout that era folks had so much fun And weren’t bothered by schedules nor respondent to chimes When people felt like it they got their work done Often long before started, therefore never begun Children often came up with their own nursery rhymes Then they acted them out beneath blanketing sun
From whence then this notion of time did appear? ‘Twas a soft spoken face with much tick up its sleeve. With its tick concealed there, folks assumed it was normal… Its demeanor demure, though, and speech rather formal. “If my tick had a voice,” it thought, “I’d achieve My dharma in life and a stellar career!”
So, this face had some numerals tattooed on his person. The artist involved didn’t think to ask why. He just figured a face can do what it wants. ‘Twas not his concern if, per chance, his work haunts. Sure enough, when this face left the parlor, nearby People got really sick; as he neared, they would worsen.
Officials then sprayed him with ‘numeral-b-gone,’ As they saw him a threat to the life they had made. The face complained, “I have tick, don’t you know? If I were permitted to tock, I would grow!” But the people felt they were being played. They made him leave town by the crack of dawn.
Things close to my heart Are scattered through my life – some worlds apart. Like leaves in autumn breeze The things I gather drift right from the start. That’s why I’m hanging low; ‘Don’t want no one to mourn when I depart.
‘Cause I know deep inside of the things that I cherish Some will remain and the rest doomed to perish. Three score years I have tasted the earth now. Seems like a dream since my bare-bottomed birth. How
Sentimental Clutter streams, echoing my hopes and dreams… Fundamental Sputter, mental spun. Sentimental Clutter flows through my mind before repose… Set my heart aflutter, Utter One.
If time is on my side I’ll make amends to those whose love I tried. To those whom I’ve caused pain My sorrow deep is but a hope in vain And as my heart beats true When we return I’ll make it up to you
I’m not sure if I can keep the promise Wish I weren’t such a lame Doubting Thomas What I feel is the urge to remain here Even though I may drive folks insane. Dear
Sentimental Clutter now entraps my heavy laden brow Makes my mind to mutter gutter songs. Sentimental Clutter tell of where I spend my time most well Temperamental Cutter right my wrongs.
I’m off the wall but just a little bit more Yet not nearly as much as the offest of all I’m right off my rocker and don’t wanna know how To get right back on it. I’m in heaven by now. If someone looks me down, that’s my cue to stand tall. I am proud to announce I’m a nut to the core.
If earth were a sweet cheek I’d stand on my face. Since it’s not quite like that, yet, I’ll settle for knowing Of nothing that makes any sane person’s sense. Any chaos around me I see as pretense In theatre of hell where life’s fun and it’s snowing. Yes, I’m kooky as dookie yet much deeper than space.
This coffer’s a proffer who’s offered to all In the midst of prevailing winds of change. As a sensible screwball I note when I see World leaders behaving as if they were three. I’m often reminded that I’m not so strange Compared to most folks on this batty ball.
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Buy a bucket of otter, then the party’s begun. We’ve got hairy-nosed, Asian, cape clawless and spotted… We’ve got your smooth-coated all ready to grill. Try our sea otter medley with urchins and krill. You say, “Hold the seaweed.” We won’t get you all knotted. You’ll have it your way, or our job just ain’t done!
When it’s breakfast, it’s otter spam omelets with jam Or else biscuits with sea-salted otter brain stew. We know that your tastes are by now all grown up. Try our soup made from pre-mature sea otter pup. Lick your fingers with pleasure; enjoy the view. Let your hair down, chill out and just don’t give a damn!
Whatcha doin’ there, boy? Turn around; let me see. I need to make sure you’re not up to no good. Do it nice and slow like you do everything. Any quick move – I just might take a swing. I’m the bird on patrol in your neighborhood. Don’t forget who’s watchin’ ya, boy. It’s me!
My job is to keep your kind under control. Though don’t quote me on that. When I stutter you can. But if I were you, I’d just keep my mouth shut. Your complainin’s what’s keepin’ your race in a rut. Don’t talk back to me, boy. Don’t you understand? It’s my big mouth and ego who’s on patrol.
There’s no way I’m puttin’ my life on the line. If you so much as flinch wrong, you’re goin’ to jail. My patrol car is runnin,’ and my lights I’ll keep blinkin,’ All the better to get your black asses to thinkin’ If you whoop ass with me, my wrath will prevail, And if you end up dyin,’ with that, I’m just fine.
There’s no problem with race in my neck of the woods. I keep a tight watch on black life that I see. After all, black lives matter. Ain’t that what y’all say? To me, that means screwing you day after day. If I go to jail, in no time I’ll be free To resume my pursuing young black men with hoods.