Where have the matchstick men and women gone,
they used to walk home from the smoky factories
just to light up?
Where has the Pork Pie hat flown to?
Even the birds chirrup less sweetly,
Is it because my shoes are old
that I walk this way?
The world has shaved off its hairiness
and lovers are both bold and bald.
Where was the 'candlewick' spread
transported?
Blackpool used to be goofy,
a ton of chilly fun,
now the donkeys are unionized
and all smirched up.
I wish I were silly again, not this
cranky, potted egghead.
Where and when did I scramble myself?
Zippo stole away the matchstick men
that's who,
and they never came back again.
Sad but true now and then.
Fumigate the neglected rooms of Caleb,
Backing this up with prayers at Mount Horeb
And tomorrow, another ever wavy web
From an irksome zeal that wouldn’t ebb!
Guess: from the Eight – Legged Catcher of Insect
Which dares to its lodge near and inspect.
The Arachnid with a True Architect’s mind
Never by civil engineers judged behind;
Often swiftly replacing their cherished structures
Immodestly pulled down by no-nonsense cleaner:
A painless recreation of the thread-like mixtures,
At long last emerging their destroyer’s winner.
The spider’s masterful labyrinth – a dazzle
The all-time brain-teasing cobweb and puzzle
Its rating on scale, second to The Ant
When it gets busy, still would not pant…
But watch it: A Harbinger of Vexations Nightmare
For the weary one now running the sleeps-race
A sound slumber by ninety percent rare,
If the spider should decide to face a glazed face:
Satan’s snake I saw lose its life to Tarantula
The kingly Spider with a hairiness that is titular.
I have figured out my arachnophobia,
it’s not the multiple eyes
or the seen or imagined hairiness of the body,
or that torso-less squishy bag.
Apart from we bipedal life-forms
four legs, one on each corner,
seems about right.
Eight is a nightmare.
I try to imagine a Koala Bear with eight legs,
or a Rhinoceros
or, heaven forbid, a crocodile.
Somehow nature got drunk on its own ripe berries,
somehow, 8 became its own demented trick
played upon we giants.
We instinctively leap away from that ancient stillness,
a crouching threat that at any moment
could burst into that fast stiff shuffle.
We watch dismayed as it
carries its own vulnerable package of horror
on all those ratcheted hoists and cranes
itself fearful even to be seen.
I have figured out my arachnophobia,
it’s not the multiple eyes
or the seen or imagined hairiness of the body,
or that torso-less squishy bag.
Apart from we bipedal life-forms
four legs, one on each corner,
seems about right.
Eight is a nightmare.
I try to imagine a Koala Bear with eight legs,
or a Rhinoceros
or, heaven forbid, a crocodile.
Somehow nature got drunk on its own ripe berries,
somehow, 8 became its own demented trick
played upon we giants.
We instinctively leap away from that ancient stillness,
a crouching threat that at any moment
could burst into that fast stiff shuffle.
We watch dismayed as it
carries its own vulnerable package of horror
on all those ratcheted hoists and cranes
itself fearful even to be seen.
When did it become kosher to show your butt
Jeans hanging down showing your you-know-what
The crack in your hide
And the hairiness besides
Should be a law to control these guys as they strut
When did it become kosher to show your butt
Jeans hanging down showing your you-know-what
The crack in your hide
And hairiness besides
Should be a law to control these guys as they strut
© Jack Ellison 2015
There once was a rabbit named Clare
Who'd shake her tart tail anywhere.
A Wolfman named William
was droolin' with willingness
fangs brushed, eyes sparklin', no cares.
He'd practiced his opening line.
On foxes and fawns, it worked fine!
So full of his hairiness
he approached Clare. Can you guess?
She asked “Can you keep time?”
“Hunh?” Sir Wolfman thought, “can she
really have thoughts that are loftier than ME?”
But something about her
made William's heart splatter.
Now Clare and William are happy.
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