Alright still gobsmacked how we were
Attacked..hacked..hijacked...whacked
Ransacked cracked shellacked poleaxed
By his relaxed Rat packed knack maxed
So here's a witty ditty ode to Travis
No ifs or buts can't tut tut... annul it or cull it
Straight out of the hut a classy brassy strut
Gung ho have a go heave ho maestro Mullet
Slaying & flaying.. no rut just a glorious glut
Left a stark dark smut.. every bowler's a mutt
Like some flirty dirty sl*t playing with the nut
Hard not to swoon at the boon of the loon
Croon at Travis's off his Head buffoon tune
Stubby not chubby tad tubby like David Boon
Us staunch fans of the promising paunch gasping
Can't snub or sub.. like a lad down the pub or club
Another out of whack attack does launch rasping
Rogue's Bogan brogue.. flashes his blade like Shogun
Wizard of Oz as loved as X men's Logan or Paul Hogan
Dashes and lashes.."Taches win Ashes" the Travis slogan
The man in the elevator was a plump rounded one,
The buttons of his suit almost coming undone.
He chortled with his might when I walked in,
His askewed moustache fluttering like a bee.
Whipping out a comb he brushed his hair barely made,
His oiled strands of four plastering on his head.
Next came the perfume which he sprayed with gusto,
While I sneezed and choked right in tow.
Pulling the belt barely up his tummy,
He cleared his throat quite like a dummy.
Off I ran into the closing doors with a slam,
Before his paunch held them back - followed by an "At your service ma'am!".
Writing anything political can throw fuel on a fire,
but these Limericks are not meant to ignite anyone.
Just a bit of humor in my opinion. Yes, we all have one.
A Musk rat and a vengeful dog
Both wantin' to be called Boss Hogg
In a rocket they'll launch
The critter with a paunch
Always croaking like a bullfrog
Trump wrote a poem about the day
A verse about those who will pay
For insubordination
He'll demand castration
Through vengeance, he will get his way
Took them all to the launching pad
The rat, the dog, Fat Kim and Vlad
Cast them into deep space
Earth will be a safer place
When it's saved from those who are madddd
Kim Jong Un asked to be on board
It was a seat he could afford
"Take Putin for the ride"
Trump wants him at his side
Into space and beyond they soared
The real 'rocket man,' evil Kim
Thinks the world should belong to him
Trump and Vlad lost in space
Lil Pudge will take their place
And King will be his pseudonym
Placement perched will measure the life of them.
Air begged resistance as trace lacks its forms.
Mute heed legs of Black Widow Spider norms,
ghostly strands of rare resilience sense strum
for the secretive possessor. Kindred,
most blacks, and some browns share Rama's clocks on
their red or orange paunch that some do don.
Due to our size, strikes are rare, flee instead.
Venom: fifteen times stronger than rattlers.
Not all males are killed by their mates end of
breeding. Finding well-fed virgins, a suave
term tactic furthered being: home wreckers.
Destroy web that females put pheromones,
assures their breed a place among unknowns.
The stupendous lot I had to munch
Made it A Mind-Blowing lunch,
Besides The final Served bunch
My aching teeth could crunch …
A quest for An Enriching Lunch
And it begot A Memorable lunch
I hadn’t its signaling hunch…
A By-Degrees Superb lunch,
In dimension A Brunch,
In Kung fu A Kick, in Boxing A Punch
To survive it A Bunch …
A lunch like a missile launch
That should explode A Glutton’s Paunch.
Life as a chameleon takes the colour of my body
Most times I like to burn in the paunch of a sea
The last time I sat on a leaf I learnt how to carry the universe on my shoulders
Cos life as an asylum for things we don't know;
Makes an elephant escape the eye of a needle
Leaves a hole punctured in the eyes of the sky
Today you name your body after a flower and tomorrow it tastes like a damaged song
Cos here; on the head of the ground, there are no rules to happenstance
All you have to do to jump a river is to check your body — to say we weigh differently when suspended in the air;
And say when I reach the age of my father I still won't wear his shoes
Cos I have a very small foot and this journey is different too
Yond odd orb apared asp cruised crawl
'f hurled hymns hoisted sanity sprawl;
'f cherubic sways marred mercies crave -
t' savor sumptuous stray sanct'ty sprayed.
Ah! Wanky winds bore sewn syll'bles -
furred fabrics meshed b' tide's lips dribbled.
Quav'ring quake teased apt awe - ruined rage;
cramped Cynthia cum azure 'neath raved.
"Seekest what you, ho!", fabrics rent.
Scurried for agora - paunch spelled,
asp basked 'n awe mocked hampered haste's rage;
quiv'ring quotient quoth bruised ire rained.
B' sassy sulphur writ 'n th' Rex visage,
baked was apared asp - mission mazed.
'20:07:19:09:47
Note:
a) Of inky intrusion.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Yond - beyond
ii) Apar - armadillo
iii) Asp - snake
iv) Cynthia - moon
v) Azure - unclouded sky
vi) Paunch - stomach
vii) Quoth - said
viii) Ire - anger
ix) Writ - written
x) Rex - King
xi) Visage - face
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) 'f - if
ii) t - to
iii) b' - by
iv) 'neath - beneath
v) 'n - in
vi) b' - by
vii) 'n - in
viii) th' - the
d) Poet's vocabulary:
i) Ah - Behold
ii) Ho - Tell me.
The rich belt
is studded with diamonds,
the poor belt,
it's full of holes ...
The rich man's belt,
accompanies the contour
of the paunch ... that of the poor
cuts in half
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
~~~~~
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.
The Greyhound reels over creaking axles.
Northern Kentucky puts on weight in summer,
a green mélange thickens,
yet inside our trundling tube,
joints rattle,
gears burn through paunch and muscle.
We lurch over a crest down into a holler
An old Shaker Hymn booms across the radio:
When we find ourselves in a place just right
'Twill be in the valley of love and light.
I have often longed to be 'in a place just right,'
to be at ease in these bucking bones,
even when breathing this smother
of body odor and diesel.
Then we dip down into a valley.
At a wooden store advertising cold beers
we stop.
"Is this the right place?" I ask.
"It’s as close as we get", says the driver.
They say by the end of this current decade,
space travel will be the way to go,
those flights fifteen hours long
from London to Hong Kong
will take thirty nine minutes or so.
It all sounds quite appealing
but I have a feeling
the reality won't match the dream,
the brainstorming sessions
and artist's impressions
will not all quite be as they seem.
For the spacemen today
before they fly away
must be physically fit, at their best.
They undergo gruelling routines
'till their bodies are lean
and must pass a battery of tests.
There's no way that I
would be passed 'fit to fly'
undergoing 3G stress on a launch,
my eyeballs would burst
and what could be much worse
is what such force would do to my paunch.
My initial delight of making such a flight
has suddenly now lost all its fizz,
with a tear and a sigh
I wave 'bye' to Shanghai,
and so Skegness this summer it is.
ON BEING A SAUSAGE ROLL
Our other sausage acquaintances are real –
Flavoured, pigmented, heated
By boiling or frying :
They have their dignity, though they too be eated.
Our natural features, our inner glories,
Are pastry-coated and abide
In small bags from ye take-away,
All similar and eaten cold outside.
Or at best saucered and microwaved
With ketchup to add insults :
Not only hidden under pastry,
Yea also ‘neath red chemical lab results.
Never are we savoured like frankfurters
Or slowly chewed like wurst.
We are hurriedly snapped up like cakes and ale
By a fat eater ready to burst
In a line of crawling traffic,
Or in a static bus queue.
Inside an expanding waistline - Zwounds
Ye fat paunch - with no limit in view.
But soft! Life on the savoury pastry shelf
Is a production line existence - not a role.
Oh, to shuffle off this pastry coil -
I’m just another sausage roll.
.................................
Callous ruler is he who beholds my wretchedness with a bliss
He swivels smoothly seeing me shrivel in scorch
See him laugh but boot not, his chair mounted on arris
I stretch my arm for his lift but he leaves me in the lurch
Knows he my minor call to him's a piece of piss
But isn't he carefree? Can't solve! Can't touch!
He lies in clover-splurge on comfort daily without a miss
His thought's to his life and paunch
But to my bawl for care he'll dis'
And libel me as the worst grouch
O tell me to whom this throne is.
Will I live to plead, or snatch?
Or accept your jobbery in a daily basis?
Tell me when in your rule will we match?
Max, the politician, wields a razor-sharp axe,
Slicing his chicken-bleep opponents' necks and backs.
"How dare they accuse me of power politics?" Max asks,
Innocent jowls masking the jaws of a shark's attack.
His gangland campaign staff for money never lacks;
Max' men shake down local pimps, and dealers of cocaine and crack.
As for the fuzz, Max is hip; he's got the inside track:
Scoring deals for them on the best ecstasy and smack.
First elected back in '72, Max walked the length and breadth of the state,
A reformer, he was, a renegade; at least the voters thought so and fell for the bait.
Ensconced in palatial power ever since, Max has glad-handed, partied, drank, and ate.
A 'politician's pol' all these years, his formidable paunch and polling punch have proven great.
Belly out over his belt, this balloon of a man once again challenges fate,
Can he hang on again in 2018, or will this be Max' last hurrah on the party's election slate?
Launch Staunch Supporters
What we will want to do is launch,
Supporters who seem so staunch;
Were Faithful full,
With white wool;
In great shape without a paunch.
Jim Horn
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