Going nowhere in circles,
at 0.9 km/h with no stops in-between,
32 numbered capsules,
except (superstitiously) 'unlucky' thirteen.
George Ferris is the name
of the man to be cursed,
for it's he who's to blame,
as his was the first.
On the skyline, towering over the town,
the city's pageantry and history,
a blot, a blemish built, an affront to the Crown,
an as yet unsolved mystery,
as to why, despoiling the view,
and to underscore that which I deplore,
England's most popular tourist attraction,
is now the London Eyesore!
The last war I saw
Was Crushing Eyesore
And I was dead sure
Man badly loves a chainsaw:
A film that lowered my lower jaw
I regarding the scenes from bare floor:
The crazy inclusion of Wasting Chainsaw,
With all its quartering strength and numbing awe
That Man’s Bestiality brought to the fore;
A peace move making a thing core
And bloodshed an “Exciting Bore”.
The last war I saw
In a friend’s filled store
Was worse than a whore
One sees and makes for a door!
The last war
I saw
Was an eyesore
In a crazy film that further lowered my lower jaw
And had me dazedly regarding the scene from bare floor
Its further showcasing of a monstrous chain saw
With all its quartering powers and awe
That man’s bestiality brought to the fore
Peace talks among factions making something core
And bloodletting, at best, an exciting bore.
The last war
I didn’t know the reasons for
In humanness proved man abjectly poor
And in Holy Spirit, an empty store...
Much was it worse than a shaming whore
One sees advancing and considers an exit door!
The last war
I accidentally saw
Was an eyesore…
In a crazy film that lowered my lower Jaw
And had me dazedly regarding the scenes from bare-floor;
Its further show casing of a hyperactive chainsaw
With all its evilly quartering powers and evil awe
That man’s bestiality once again brought to the fore
Making peace talks a thing to humanity core
And much blood shed at best an exciting bore…
The last wars
I saw in a friend’s store
Was worse than a shaming whore
Towards you advancing and you’re fast to an exit door
The cowl or other churchly attire
The priest’s habit soiled with desire
The fanciest should Lucifer hire
His noxious nature will not expire
Closing my eyes as I attend dreams,
I come across an iceberg.
I understand all-
I comprehend the unimaginable,
and just as suddenly I wake.
My eyes are accustomed-
there is darkness-
brightened by halogen lights-
an empty veil spied upon,
spoiled by the idea of....
something more.
There is a sea of I's
then there is just I.
Yet no one really notices
clutter to me isn't bad, because it:
gives me exercise when looking for things,
keeps me company when alone in the house,
makes my guests concentrate on me,
and hides my lack of artistic talent with interior decor.
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