i like to move it
so i can call it
my fazballs itch
it needs scritch
its now bleeding
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
my fazballs are now gone
Beneath the carnival lights,
where fortunes danced and swayed,
a prophet sat behind a glass screen,
dressed in a turban, and bright brocade.
A coin slipped in and woke the oracle.
With a clang, a click, a beat of drum,
A bottled genie deep within was stirred,
Our fate was sprung; our fortune opened, revealed.
The glowing eyes knew every face,
every dream the heart held dear;
every wish, every need, every want fulfilled,
was printed on a tiny card, and then expelled.
The years rolled on; the tents came down.
The boardwalk halls all closed down.
Yet the hunger for prophecy foretold remained,
in modern shrines, in glowing glass enclosed.
The prophet's turban turned to code,
Its gears and wheels changed to circuit chips.
Eliza, Claude and Gemini said: "I'm here to help".
All clad in Zolta's turban, gear and fab disguise.
From Zoltar's gears to silicon dreams,
we've always asked screen oracles for help.
To see our fortunes unfurl, and be revealed,
in the swirl of mist in dark crystal balls.
Too ‘Off’ for the odd balls or the cool kids,
wherever does that leave this lady’s quill?
The common symptoms don‘t really show,
I’m afflicted with chronic poetry disorder.
Wherever does that leave this lady’s quill?
Absolutely in anguish, drifting nowhere.
I’m afflicted with chronic poetry disorder,
being me means you’re the squarest peg.
Absolutely in anguish, drifting nowhere
every voice matters until you don’t fit.
Being me means you’re the squarest peg,
that is probably why I keep on writing.
Every voice matters until you don’t fit,
iced out by the festive word .. inclusive.
That is probably why I keep on writing,
maybe I’m searching for the imaginary.
Iced out by the festive word.. inclusive,
the common symptoms don’t really show.
Maybe I’m searching for the imaginary,
too ‘Off’ for the odd balls or the cool kids.
I have gone wooing
Altruism's cycle goes round
Amalgam the temple of sweet cunny moments plying
And the flattering of been crowned
I'v come to surrender
I know distance is key
I know how arid motility alter
Whence the glee desire seeming flee
blades of grass with dew-drops
appear as double-edged sharp swords
stabbing tender transparent crystal balls ~
light rays paint kaleidoscopic images
1st place
His building plans as seen on zoom
Resemble an old Pharoah’s tomb
Though Epstein is dead
Jeffrey's king-sized bed
Makes a grand stage for Trump's ballroom
When the wind chimes high
when the wind chimes low
through the links
in his kilt he'll go
all the lassies say hello
Donald where's your troosers?
A slimy heel slippery eel
tho' no feared he'd take the fall(s)
he lost his breeks on the course
where caddies dropped (all) his ball(s)
With apologies to Andy Stewart (1933 – 1993)
The shuttlecock's not got a feather
my balls have lost their tether
yo-yo and hula hoop have gone for a loop
chasing rainbow's become a boring chore
in any kind of weather
and me I fling and fly frisbees no more
as now there's come the day
when games and music I can't play
the fiddle has a broken bow
out of wind such instruments
I know not how to blow
the guitar has no strings attached
the ukulele its self-same match
my drums I don't bang or bash
cymbals won't ride or crash
yet measure for measure
I treasure and love
the previously provided pleasure
by all of the above
When first I went ten-pin bowling
was in a league of my own
tho' hot to trot my score was shot
splits and gutterballs set the tone
my opponent bowled professionally
outclassed before I'd begun
she demonstrated then remonstrated
“It's not 'only a game' to some!”
tho' bet my set I'd met my match
when playing each frame for a round
looked like I'm paying heard me saying
"The next one's on me, I'll be bound."
with a spin a difficult situation
unlikely to escape she placed me in
and looking down the lane found myself
once more behind the eight pin
I do enjoy verbal tennis
wordplay may be a game
outwit outsmart the opponent
is the only aim
lobbing phrases across the net
volley and rally back and forth
no one's a loser and yet
those precious few
who think on their feet
will always win have you beat
Shakespeare is the all-time champ
merely a player with poem and sonnet
through thick and thin he'd go for a spin
and put some English on it
it's fun for all with no balls or calls
and if your serve is up to scratch
unless words fail
at the thought you quail
it's word game set and match
~ to the tune of 'Jingle Bells,' please ~
Tushies slide, what a ride
slipping on the ice
All we need’s a beaming bride
and a few bouquets of rice
Where’s the groom, in his room
with Cinderella’s mice
Stitching up a triple-plus size
for his buxom bride’s bo-som… ooom!
It’s Christmas Eve, and Santa’s drunk
so he can be the preacher
Administer last rites instead of I do’s
come morn, he’s ‘Rudolfo Screecher’
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
they’re the tunes we croon
When the bride screams, ‘What?’
Spooks begin to strut ~
by the light of a cardboard Moon
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
the only songs we sing
When the bride cries, ‘Wha hoppened?’
We tell her, Popcorn’s Poppin’ ~
for her wedding meal next June
On Tuesday night I had to stay up late
I needed to see who'd win the debate
But I don't want to talk about that
I just want to know who ate my cat
balls of lightning
scrape the darkness
off my window
desert hills illuminated
thundering growls
of a grumpy giant
rumble through the night
while my pillow squishes
against my chest
like you
loud huffs and puffs
scatter twigs, leaves and dust
across the concrete
sky's all swollen
and the earth pants
in anticipation
arching up
to meet the clouds
ravished trees rustle
thirsty for so long
dry blades
stand so soo straight
straining to be drownedn¨n
a pregnant pause
while sheets of silent light
splinter into x-rays
of desperation
and fertile longing
she holds her breath
quivering
and the Universe explodes
smashing, crashing
stabbing the ground
splitting it wide open
to swallow torrents
descending drenching
tearing and rending
filling and drilling
penetrating
saturating
soaking and drowning
gasping for air
mad rushing
recedes
into the lulling drizzle
she absorbs
until the moon is gone
mouth so dry
I wake face buried
in the soft folds
of what comforts me
these days
and you're waiting
for the wake up call
you never wake up to
(you know)
rid of thoughts
washed away
it's a new day
I like to write a verse or two, I do it all the time
Oftentimes it’s limericks, and sometimes perfect rhyme
But this is not my hobby, it’s just something that I do
I have a hobby and I write, but can’t combine the two
Hitting balls with sticks is what I do to get my fix
I aim the balls at grassy holes to give me further kicks
Hitting balls with sticks is what I do with Uncle Rolf
I call it hitting balls with sticks… cos nothing rhymes with golf.
Okay, all you clever clogs, I guess I must concede
That Rudolf is another choice, on this we are agreed
So, come that jolly time of year when holly decks the halls
Uncle Rolf can hold my sticks… while Rudolph holds my balls
My balls, bouncing on the concrete.
So bouncy they are.
I go to kick them and they travel, so far.
But then they pop, I start to cry.
Now all I want to do is go and die.
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