Abandoned where aleatory fates immerse,
Exiled in the Whirlpool of Death we face,
Transcending a vanishing star's lost grace,
Leaving sanguine possibilities, a Time we curse,
Mirroring a microcosm of history in verse.
Perhaps in reaction, or rebellion, a world is born:
A world mirrored, where whims hold sway,
A candle's flame, twice bright, burns half its day,
Besotting fiction’s staple, known and long,
Dancing to its own drummer's vibrant song,
Problems, unpassported, its throng banish away.
Over the toll bridge a young lord and prince
from the realm of Epsom landed Birkdale,
to seek sweet raptures in my limerence
by she possessed of its Unholy Grail.
In the virgin waters of Point Erin
stood a siren in her fair beauty all -
my heart dared to want and its flesh of sin
did upon her besotting favours call.
Remembered are the concubines of court -
a fire in my codpiece and in my jocks,
the jousting grey knights whom over you fought
and a Celtic Queen in long flaxen locks.
O’ what forbidden enchantment was she
and what soft lingering kiss given me.
Written: April 1994
Frederick Frog wooed Willamenia Woo Cup.
They went to dine, and slurpily sup.
Flies were on the menu, fresh from a corpse, rotting.
They were excited with each other, truly besotting.
They danced the tango, watusi, and a wild twist too.
They had a marvelous time, these cute spotted two.
They won a dance contest, and she danced on a pole.
He watched with his eyes, his libido, his joy and his soul.
They ended up married, yet they still dance up a storm.
If you are going to visit them, I feel you ought to be warned.
They have seventeen kids, and they are all dancers too
And they will make you dance along, and they’ll cover you with goo.
They will see a giant fly if you show up unannounced.
They almost got me. They are fast, and they pounced.
So they are sweet if you are frogs, so go see them, please do.
But if you are a fly, keep moving and wear a really fast shoe.