If I could fly, I would be gone
Over that hill, across the pond
Next to the path by the albino swan
So, I can spy on my cousin John
Who is dating that doxy name of Dawn
Next, t I will spy on my brother Shawn
You were a doxy, her grandson said in surprise
She nodded, a Parisian party girl, that ain’t no lie
Kind of a vampy tramp, said his ignoramus cousin Jim
You will get it all now, Grandma said; I leave nothing to him.
I love fat cat city, I fit in so incredibly well!
This song was sung by Poindexter, friend from the dell.
Here it is okay to have lusciously large thighs and hips
We make fun of the teeny tiny cats unfed on ships
I love fat city, where big fluffy toms dwell and pants aren’t creased
Poindexter gave himself a savvy mirror sneak look, and he was pleased
This is the place I had been looking for my entire life.
A place to find a Rubenesque rounded curvy doxy of a wife.
Look unhappy
Doxy to wife
Not quite a life.
just take off a layer
or walk around
topless
i am the archpriest
eating sugar puffs
i am the prelate
eating bagels
i am halfway
in
and halfway
out the window
the mother-in-law wants it off
i am not for sale
my successors are labouring
like hercules
the hidrosis is formulaic
like glib one-liners
"it's bad for the bones and
you'll catch a cold"
bring on the catarrh
the indisposition
the bogeys
the runny front bonnet
and collectivist honk
the towel over the bowl
of hot adam's ale
seduce my soul my doxy
my concubine
a night emission
i make love to the air conditioner
You severed me for your paramour,
My first love, you are mon amour,
Doxy of love surround your heart,
Betrayed in the lanes of my sweeheart,
Sweeping the hectic lanes,
Sleeping in the lonely fanes,
I feel solaced in this heavy rain,
Why is this pity a condolement of pain?
Sire of our children, am a lone parent...
Squire's anguish on your treachery is apparent...
Finding love in your absence,
I am in awe of his presence...
You rush to the aisle in clamour,
Heart cracked, I am married to your paramour.
How much Time you spend in me
You don't hear , you don't see
The God is here the God is there
He knows how much I really care
I am not fine but I can be
Sun is down over the Sea
The pungent moment is too much rare
And my doxy want to share
The moon is alone but not free
Do not fall in love with a poet:
Breakfast would be a couplet.
Lunch would be a quatrain:
Personified, pithy and prolix on metaphoric train.
Supper would be a sonnet:
Smithereens of oomphs, entangled in esurience's enmesh.
On the spousal sunshine,
He would sew suit of slant rhymes.
For how long he would last in bassinet:
Measured in Troche, dactyl, anaspetic or iambic pentameter.
Advice for the shavers and doxy:
Lofty metaphors Clothed in paradoxical antithesis.
Talk more of many other things,
Your home is hyperbole of poetry.
19:05:05:13:51
Ancestor. Ancestral Pen. Ancestral piece. SOS
SHIVER ME TIMBERS!
Once a cut-throat and cannon ball dodger
Now a one legged salty old codger
But when ship enters docks he
Will look up an old doxy
And hoist up with a good Jolly Roger
I am archaic and forgotten these are my dusty tomes
The perennial deipnosophist verbally alone
With flowing ink my guide, the page my diligent doxy
I capriciously choose my diction and propose my proxy
A peccant periapt around thy neck, I’ll drag thee
Along the hyperborean, yet sullen, road you see
Hoarfrost coated little old me helpless and miserly
Carry on, my linguistics are aged unfortunately
The bruit is that the caducity of my tenure is
The reason for this rhyme; I digress and must stress that this
This, is but a puzzle, it is but a conundrum.
I'll let you decipher amongst the humdrum
Through hazy mirrors
A doxy appears to be doused
Within suicide languages
Hips bemoaning white filigrees
Caressed by a famine of beatitude
designed to elicit tragedy
As the bark of fear ascends
callow pages crease
illustrating a youthful doxy
abreast a sheet of smoke
waltzing betwixt velveteen lips
as if tomorrow’s mistakes
mattered yesterday
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