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Much Ado About No Thing--A Ghost Story
Now, once upon a time there lived a spirit nondescript, possessing nor a body nor a brain nor yet a soul, together nightly working at a dump wherein they stripped, each wraith e'er lithe and limber writhing round a stripper's pole-- a ghostly grind which on a phantom's fanny takes its toll, reducing stripper ghouls aghast to live on groan alone, to haunt Goodwill in buying sheets sans any cut-out hole, and yet to seances forego or worse take out a moan-- till by a fluke a handsome Bard, the baddest to the bone, of wit and skill unmatched and still a thick full head of hair, took pity on the poor thing non-existent and unknown, to body forth a form without a form beyond compare-- its starlit orbs invisible, each one huge polestar rare, concealed behind a sexy ruffles open-cups bralette, and never seen behind a G-string wee a nothing fair, a naughty naught certes priceless to the airy oes offset-- and all, in having never seen it, never could forget, "Ethelia Thing"--so named by yet the hunky Bard and Sage, who gifts as well Miss Thing a thong to hard ghost thingies whet, around the Globe upon the otherworldly stripper stage-- on which in thirteen-inch spiked heels inside a kitten cage, no revenant could ride a pole as unseen Ethel could, who backwards upside down rode each of yet non-standard gauge, from silicone to splintered wood the test of slime has stood-- when one enchanted evening having reached its maidenhood, across a crowded club it spied behind a large back door, "Thor Thick," the star of full-length feature films in Hollywood, a Sanskrit ghost of "hédas" of an a*s to twice die for-- who at first "Boo!" on seeing zilch true love undying swore, till tolled the mourning wedding bells for fancied Ethel Thick, among a gala ghoulish and a ghastly blast galore, at Horror Hall of eerily one stripper candlestick-- the uninvited guests, each either mad or lunatic, to fuzzy images and outlines shadowy attuned, a diehard unfamiliar with an optics slyly slick, who opts for spectral spectra still of specters pantalooned-- then after in a churchyard booked our couple honeymooned, within a charnel house cheap rented out by one sharp priest, whom both the airy nothings cuddled, kissed, and sweetly spooned, till midnight as is specified for priests and virgins leased-- when finally the Thicks into a suburb moved to feast, on superstitious mortal fools afeard of spooky spooks, of goblins, witches, vengeful gods, the mark on any beast, and Pucks and poet-playwrights rustic rudely mocking kooks-- though here with tongue in cheek our curlèd Bard of nil perukes, his script--"The Promised End"--consumes in prejudice and pride, and as he o'er a large bowl pukes his fluffiest of flukes, Thor eyes inside his thong no thing for Ethel Thick to ride-- thus, Ethel longing not to longer braggart Death abide, off Widow's Peak high dives onto the rocks of Ol' Maid Sea, though foiled still eons counting is each crack at suicide, for Ethel, dead already, fated is--alack--to be! A Ghost Story 7-22-2022 One in Five 2 Poetry Contest Sponsored by Joseph May
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