Khaki has never other fabrics liked:
It has even their wearer’s bodies disliked,
Their forgivable flaws, their blunders hyped
And their names and their nicknames mistyped!
Sometimes you hear, “Like onions slice them!”
And begun a solving of what wasn’t a problem;
Bound to uncannily unfold
What Plain Malice does hold …
By then, it would be fanciful
To ask your questions – A roomful:
‘What and what next shall happen?’
And whether or not blades shall sharpen …
It shall have been a busying with fiction
By the time we triggers eschew from ruction
Khaki has seldom The Plain clothes liked
And has, indeed, other fabrics spiked;
Often through insistence on Inaction
And treatment of either as a faction.
My buddy mistyped ‘high wire walking’
Her error got everyone talking
She merits a spanking
Cos it rhymed with banking
From quizzes Michelle is now baulking!
07/09/21
When you attend a funeral
you don’t expect to laugh
But a typo by the printers
was such a glaring gaffe
An N was mistyped in a word
So ‘Mooring is broken’ looked very absurd
It’s to be played when I pass, it’s a favourite song
And I’m sure that Cat Stevens won't get the lyrics wrong!
This happened at a funeral I attended recently, in the order of service there were actually 2 mistakes made by the printers
28/7/19
If a promise understood the spoken word
would it ignore the roar of devotion's cheer
or disregard
the sight of a despondent tear
Better...
it bond the two hearts
than falsify its token pledge
Because...
its grasp
just might quell that offensive urge
and thus
defend the heart from tormentor's dirge
chastising
the inconsiderate tongues that swell them
~
Keywords mistyped
in letters dear
where finger strokes
and angry thought combine
so sadly...
that one flawed phrase
inclements
and forever storms our minds
~
If promises could interlace with beating hearts
Perhaps
tears could find defence
from poison darts
~~~
With this napkin as my canvas
A word picture I paint
While he drowns out his sorrows
Until he finally faints
The best works he weaves
Are when unconsciously drunk
While sober and thinking
He writes only junk
While he flirts with the barmaid
Thinking about the sword in his pants
The sword in his right hand
On this napkin words plant
When he wakes with this poem
Stuck to the side of his head
He’ll read it and conclude
He’s the genius instead
Instead of getting credit
For these words that I write
It would be more correct to say written
By Jack Daniels last night
So why are the words
Not slurred or mistyped
Because while the lush was all trashed
His pen was alright
So barmaid pour another
For this bum who holds me
And let’s pray he uses his other hand
When he has to go pee
Censorship Rains Supreme when Truth is harsh!!!....
...#]#-* ||{@: }@>?{~ <:{_+}~ @{}:
While checking out a website
Where my poem appeared in print,
I had to do a double-take,
My scrunched up eyes a’squint.
For there before me were my words,
Which everyone could see,
But one phosphorescent typo
Sat there looking back at me.
I’d read it over, checked it twice,
Like Santa’s song suggested;
But somehow I’d mistyped a word
And nobody’d protested.
I made a fast correction
And removed the extra letter.
As soon as I was done, I felt
Miraculously better.
Until a different poem of mine
My temper did ignite,
For a single noun was used
When only plural would be right.
Just a measly “s” was missing
But it set me in a tizzy,
For a typo is a message
That your mind is just too busy.
Once again, it was amended
So I really should stop fumin’
‘Cause, to paraphrase the Bard,
To make a typo’s only human!