EXIT STRATEGY
WHAT IS IT GOING TO BE
DO YOU KNOW DONNIE
I like to eat pickles and rhyme.
And tackle gravity from time to time.
A plateful or wishes and strawberries.
Are all the day carries.
Delicious chips which crunch like old pipes underground.
That give us a chuckling sound.
I like to eat pickles that rhyme.
As I hurt with slime.
Try to make a poem sandwich.
Whatever that means to a light switch.
Fall asleep because of dust.
Wake up due to picture frame rust.
I can’t make a poem make sense.
So I take the poem for a rinse.
He goes into the bath I made on a whim.
His chances of escape are slim.
Because it’s poisonous starch in this water.
I did it for the writing fodder.
I have enough to write about these days.
While carving out a pickle haze.
There once was a pickle packer
who ate more pickles than he’d pack
The boss of the packers caught him
and instantly gave him the sack.
It didn't stop the packer eating
pickles all day up to evening
He got fright of his life one night
when he shrivelled from out of sight.
Royalty can be no match
Sometimes, for a plan to hatch
From the minds of angry men
When they have an angry yen
To overthrow what they don’t like
and make a move to shoot and strike
Rather then make their appeal
They would rather maim and steal
But
In this saga to retell
As his rage he could not quell
It is true as it was seen
’Twas a pickle saved the queen
Had she not reached for that Dill
Her assassin’s plot to kill
Might have gotten very far
Had she not reached for that jar
Thank God for that pick, pick, pickle
Saved her life, it’s just that simple
Sometimes, she is just so fickle
Thank God, she reached for that pickle
Now forever in this land
There will be a PICKLE Stand
With a sign for all to see
Saved the queen, HEY, look at me
That assassin’s been arrested
And his punishment attested
He will labor many years
Canning pickles, chips and spears!
This tale is about Pickle Onion Percy
Who is besotted with a little cocktail pickle called Tracy Tickle
Many hours are spent together chatting and laughing
On a warm soft fresh slice of rye pumpernickel
Now, Percy is known for being somewhat fickle
He is poor and only possesses a nickel
He is the target of Asparagus and Gherkin… who take the mickle
Who harass and bully him …. As tears down Percys face do trickle
Truth is , Gherkin and Asparagus also fancy the sweet Tracy Tickle
Though she thinks they are bullies and so very mean
Both tall ,weird and lumpy looking
And horrible shades of green
Tracy Tickle only has eyes for Percy Pickle
Asparagus and Gherkin actually make her feel quite sickle
Percy is sweet, funny and kind
Tracy desperately wants to become Mrs Pickle!
Call me fickle
no doubt about it
I’m in a pickle
a firkin full of gherkin
quite a quandary
tho' still a dill
the question isn’t funny
it’s ridiculous
others may tickle us
yet I don’t see
for love nor money
why I can’t tickle me
Golly, what a Pickle you’re In -- Bub,
How is it That you’re stuck in a Pub?
Gullible -- You look, Pimp
for why not hop, on Blimps?
and Fly in its Massive Ruba-dub.
Pow! the pale powder pumps power into
The pastor’s panicked pulse. Peeing his pants,
He pulls his parcel and pitter-patters
To the piss-pot, paying his penile penance.
He lies on his bed in the rest home -
the old man that nurses all there
have given the nickname Old Pickle.
(Of course they've seen beneath his underwear.)
Like greenish blue cheese
bulge the veins of his legs.
By this stage of his life,
he wished they were pegs.
He once was as smooth as mozzarella,
melting every woman with his smile.
Now his body is crumbling away.
His smell is somewhat barn-yarn vile.
Old Pickle loves the pretty nurses.
Amazingly, he can get it up still.
Bemoaning his looks, he lies in his bed,
wishing it weren’t all such a big dill.
blue cheese moon glows swoons
fickle as an old pickle
maiden not impressed
Dill pickle hated him so
Because he stank badly
Dill pickle screamed just go
Blue cheese wept thus sadly
When I leave the fridg, bro
I'll stink ever much mo
Dill pickle grew older
Fermenting like a bozo
Then opening his holder
A stink scent deathblow
~ to the tune of 'Jingle Bells,' please ~
Tushies slide, what a ride
slipping on the ice
All we need’s a beaming bride
and a few bouquets of rice
Where’s the groom, in his room
with Cinderella’s mice
Stitching up a triple-plus size
for his buxom bride’s bo-som… ooom!
It’s Christmas Eve, and Santa’s drunk
so he can be the preacher
Administer last rites instead of I do’s
come morn, he’s ‘Rudolfo Screecher’
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
they’re the tunes we croon
When the bride screams, ‘What?’
Spooks begin to strut ~
by the light of a cardboard Moon
O, Pickle Balls and Paddle Bells
the only songs we sing
When the bride cries, ‘Wha hoppened?’
We tell her, Popcorn’s Poppin’ ~
for her wedding meal next June
Remember when the paddle board was used for a different type of paddling
Mickle pickle schmickle ding dong due
Eyes on the prize for both me and you
Dragon flies by on a plane summer blue
Mickle pickle schmickle ding dong due
When walking along on the road,
An object appeared, so I slowed.
It was probably tossed
From a car that had crossed;
The surprise on my face must have showed.
‘Twas a pickle, a deli-type spear,
Maybe packed with a sandwich? Unclear.
Crisp and green, its appeal
Would add much to a meal
Of a passing black bear or a deer.
Still, the person who flung it outside
Didn’t mean for a snack to provide.
He was likely a smug
Type of littering bug,
Maybe pickled himself, for the ride.
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