Bob and Patrick were young babyhood krabby patty crib mates
They have been together since babyhood, there are no debates
Patrick is a good friend, but Bob has to take care of him a bit
For Patrick was born completely naïve with eyebrows that knit
He believes whatever you tell him; ideas are not in his pointy head.
The red dots across his belly are proof that he is probably overfed.
He does not understand some of the wittier things happening around.
But his friendship and loyalty to SpongeBob is well known in the sound.
pour me apple wine
and pour me red instead
what I meant to align
with cheese and bread
sundown apple crystalline
a bit of beef overfed
hearty paprika soup
better goulash, deep red
with rainbow salad scoop
and geripptes of apfelwein
jalapeno peppers have put me down
I eat them in my dressing gown
cannot give them up, I like things tart
bit of a burn they give to my heart
my lala land calls me back to bed
way for me not to be overfed
when I am asleep, I need no food
a nap puts me in a kinder mood
we had never seen such a fancy, schmancy, gorgeous witch.
She is a siren, look at how her hat has a magical pitch.
This was told to us by a jealous crone with ugly teeth.
Her brain was full of worms, said my cousin Keith.
They were terrified of the gorgeous witch named Belle.
She was a siren witch, born six states away in a pumpkin dell.
Because she was a foreigner, they said mean things about her.
She was nice to me, so she became my friend for life, said Burr.
Burr made up her own mind about people and witches you see.
Others’ ideas and prejudices had no influences on her choices.
She liked siren witch, and talked her praises to Bree, Catty and me.
The only ones not convinced were two cousins, both Joyces.
They never gave anyone new a way to get into their clique.
Judging people upside, downside, their thinking distorted and thick.
She’ll always be a newcomer; we’ll never let her in they said.
These two were as welcoming as a corpse that had been overfed.
skinny witch did not care about food
though it would have put her in a much better mood
I forget to eat, she admitted to those who knew her best
They brought her cookies and pies, a little test.
skinny witch laughed, and brushed the food away.
I’m too busy to eat, I am here to fly and sway.
You had better eat something fluffy corpulent witches said.
Hated to see her as skinny as they were overfed.
Santa lay
Sick on bed all through day,
Unable to wake up, as if dead.
It was going to be Christmas, he thought with dread
Doctor said, he was too fat being overfed
To get through chimney, he must lose weight
Now, should wait at each gate.
What a fate!
duck marched by wearing a hat on his head
he was fluffy, as if he had been overfed
he stumbled into a pillow and slid down a hill
I grabbed his rain hat and have it still
If he returns, he can have it of course
a rain hat looks silly on an aged old horse
But I am hoping to once again see that duck
Because I heard that rubbing their head brings you good luck
If we must shine, let it not like flies
Bright like the beautiful tune of butterflies,
While hunted by foes around the den of faeries,
Sing at us like hungry overfed dogs.
If we must shine, Aaa! Let it but mildly shine,
Even as we dance awaiting our unknown end
In truth, shall the rue yet monsters coy
For life still lives even if, it ends my friend!
My comradery! let’s then meet as we toy!
We may felt frightened yet again as we journey
Life is sweet with thorns in armour of bravery
And the million blows taste like honey!
That which lies is a choice of life or slavery?
Like lions we will face the cowardly fear!
Almost strangled to the wall, yet fighting to hear!
Every time I piss on that little plastic stick I lose something.
An archer struck down on a battlement, a coin from a rich mans pocket, not enough to really feel it but enough to know it's gone. Something is.
Every time I let him cum in me I’m waving my white flag. Even if i ask him to, beg him to, I admit defeat.
To be a mother is to lose. From the point of conception to your last breath, you lose.
Your body is theirs to live in and reap for all they need.
Your thoughts are theirs, on them, or their thoughts.
Your health is in those tiny hands of theirs
.
And your love, your careful, gentle love, now raging red like an overfed hearth, will be theirs.
Whether they want it or not. Whether they take it or not.
It will rip from you and follow them like a curse.
And still, I ask him to, beg him to and admit my defeat. I piss on that plastic stick and hope, deep down, it will be my undoing.
overfed rooster had a harem of eight little hens
they brought his feed, as he sat on his whims
fattened him up, so that he started to look like a hulk.
He demanded cranberry juice, and they brought it in bulk
It is their fault I am getting bigger he told the goat next door.
They are always bringing me tasty goodies to store.
I spend my afternoons lying around in bed with a snore.
How much more can I eat? I am as wide as a door.
So overfed, the nice salesman said,
"You clipped my wings, oh how they bleed, Ed."
Low overhead, so we spent our bread,
On many things, we never needed!
Does this mean much to you,
Force fed at Yuletide too?
Unsure if Jesus meant all this,
Tinsel town of retail bliss,
Beginning to feel like Yuletide,
Snow in Aussie ocean tide,
Swimming and drinking,
What is Santa thinking?
Overfeeding everyone,
Overstuffed games in the sun,
Does Jesus think we're crude?
Groaning, here's more food,
Gimme more gifts and a card,
Graft for Christmas, that's so hard,
No matter who's to blame,
Mega stores feel no shame.
Buy, buy, buy, right away,
Rather ceasefires this festive day,
Despite Bing Crosby, okay
That's what Jesus would really say!
Grandma’s face on a paper mache’ dog
What could be better? Nothing she thought.
Her overfed dog looks a bit like a stuffed hog.
We could not believe what the sculpture brought.
Behind grandma’s back we laughed our petootsies off.
In front of her face tears ran, as we tried not to cough.
It was the craziest thing I had ever seen, no contest.
She left it to me, for I was the one who lied the best.
I know this might sound kind of wrong
But I am making up a ditty of a cute little song
About how hedgehog loves his smelly patchouli bong
How can I distribute it to this hippie throng?
Hedgehog is a private guy, I said.
You might be messing with his head.
I would write a song about myself instead.
Maybe about how you keep overfed.
My husband, John and I have been busy preparing for the festive season, wrapping up numerous presents and bottles of wine etc. My mind goes out to the people of Ukraine and others in troubled Countries worldwide, and I have been thinking about how I could put this in poetry form.
I can't think of a better way of expressing how this makes me feel. When reading the paper this morning, an 89-year-old lady who lives in the Adelaide Hills wrote this in the paper:
It's sunny today, and I am watching a number of sparrows eating scraps that I put out for them in the sunshine. But all I can think of is Ukraine, and their lack of warmth, food, safety, care, love, kindness, etc. Even a dash of goodwill would be something. Do we just try to forget their plight, feed the overfed, and have ourselves a Merry, Merry you-know-what?
This is the letter written by an old lady named Helen who I will never meet.
At 89, she took time out to show how this tragic invasion has saddened her and many others and we are helpless to do anything about it.
I felt a need to share this with all P. Supers (Soupers )
Take care, Old Duck.
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