The L. T. was green,
And equally mean,
Full of swagger and bluster,
And all the authority he could muster.
Bold in command,
This brash little man,
Who strode all around
Like he owned the damn ground--
Barking orders and spittle,
Never regarding how little
Regard in which he was held.
It was the midnight shift,
And L. T. in a tiff,
Cause his coffee had run out.
The L. T. with a shout,
Demanded a fresh pot be made--
No matter if the deployment was delayed.
In stepped the Sergeant broad and tall,
Striding to the Lieutenant who suddenly seemed small.
“The troops have a duty to move this line.
Your coffee can wait--this ain’t the time.
“And never raise your voice to one of mine.”
The Sergeant stared a moment then turned on a dime,
And made himself a cup of joe taking his sweet ass time
The Belt Wearer...strode into the room
The heartbeat of Young Hearts...foresaw doom
A crack of the whip...and backs stripped bare
The smell of burnt leather...hung in the air
Bedtime now...after a late night smack
Pain called out for help...but no one called back
The more storms would rage...the more rain would fall
Call it a typical day...down Teardrop Hall
Sixteen sailors strode into a pub,
Then a group of them left to get some grub.
Those who remained got into a fight,
With some locals who drank there every night.
Although the sailors did outnumber,
The locals (who were also dumber)
Two sailors shy of a ratio of two-to-one,
They (the sailors) had lost and the locals had won.
But then exactly half who had left for food,
Returned to the pub in a foul mood.
One local had left, a man named Tor,
Until the ratio was the reverse of what it was before,
Even though the beaten sailors couldn't fight,
The fresh sailors versus the locals, all right!
Don't ask me how it went,
For I will remain forever silent.
But could you determine how many sailors
Could be considered failures,
Because they went to get grub
And didn't return to the pub
Never swinging a punch nor taking a fall,
Against the locals at all?
Out comes the storm
In a galloping parade
Of silver and iron
Honour masking the greed of men
In the rattling and dim wilderness
The rituals and the songs
Are ready to be extinguished
By those who rule over gods
And then a fatal sob
Pierces through the still ether
And the keepsakes of ages
Are washed away in a river the colour of blood
- A paradise is lost
And she dashed out of that darkness
Leaving behind her potions
And the archeology of knowledge
Clotted with blood of the wise and the heathen
Sacrificed onto an unfaithful god
On top of a sun-brimming temple
But the men came for her
As they always do
Filled with lust and rage
Gnawing, ripping, mutilating
That dark sacred flesh
Discarded on the wet ground
And she strode deeper and deeper
The wild one of her tribe
With only traces of echoes
Of the only voices she had known
But there are no voices here
They remain only as effigies
On dirty marble of the victors
- Silencio.
Cardinal aristocat strode into the priest’s hall
No one uttered a sound, they were stunned after all
He had never looked this fit, this fine, this brave or tall
His regular plain monk’s tunic had made him feel small.
So, you decided to join us after all, said the priest’s cat
She was a mean beast, a hisser, a scratcher, and fat
Cardinal aristocat ignored her as if she were a mouse or gnat
He had come to show off his ensemble and his new hat.
On sleepless nights, down winter's road,
A lonely knight in silence strode.
He raised his drink, a golden hue,
And bellowed deep, as sorrow grew.
A sudden quake—his soul it stirred,
And through the haze, strange voices heard.
He counted souls with trembling hand,
Each one like grains of dying sand.
The night grew cold, the stars grew dim,
No cheer nor warmth remained for him.
But lo! A ferryman appeared—
With staff in hand, four holes it speared.
Aghast, the knight beheld his face,
Time had worn it—left no trace
Of youth or mirth, just aching bones,
A mirror held to silent groans.
And then his glass—now slick with mold,
Slipped from his hand; he felt so old.
“Au revoir,” the stranger sighed,
To charred-eyed knight, whose heart had cried.
Then toward a light from darkened skies,
He went—no fear, no need for guise.
A star, perhaps, or something more,
A beacon to a distant shore.
And thus the tale, now soft and thin:
A knight finds peace from strife within.
For he may rest, his journey done—
A life well lived, a race well run.
Here Death strode and left its trace
Where laid its hand to mark the place
Bade stony pages stand in waiting
To offer up in silent greeting
Final words for those distressed
Written out on granite stones
Under which in Deaths caress
Lie sedentary bones
Whose dreaming now is not besot
In earthly tasks nor woes begot
For Death to those in quiet repose
Bequeathed lifes last refrain
And eyes and lips forever closed
For evermore abstain
Yet with a dreamers certainty
Now ponder for eternity
The meaning spake in timeless odes
Upon which Deaths surcease bestowed
The scuffling duo sparred in the park
Their screams and shouts so very marked
A bag was clutched in the woman's hand
A man had grabbed it while he harangued
"Let go!" He shrilled and tugged it more
"Tis mine, not yours!" The woman swore
The strap tore his hand, he released his grip
The woman fell back in one mighty trip
Another spoke out with voice strong and stern
"It belongs to her, so it must be returned."
The other placated the poor fallen lass
He showed her the bag with gold coloured hasp
The woman leapt up, grabbed the bag and was gone
"It belonged to my wife." Said the man all forlorn
"Oh I'm sorry." Said the other, watching her go
Laughing and jeering, bag firmly in tow
She headed toward a blue, murky pond
The path, alongside, was slippy beyond
Now her footing was lost to the slime and the mud
As she sallied forth into furthermore sludge
The man strode swiftly to view her demise
With a duck on her head holding its prize
The little red bag was firm in its beak
So the man took it back and the duck said quack quack.
I didn't pull my weight
The boss was really sore
He said "you're second rate
and I won't take it anymore."
He continued raving
On how I was misbehaving
Said my job was not worth saving
And so I longed for Avon
Avon by the sea
I must go back to Avon
Avon by the sea
When my lifeboat needs a haven
When my problems need a maven
This is where I need to be
There's a ten-mile barrier island
It's not that far away:
Where ospreys touch down majestically
and beach forests gently sway.
But also on the Jersey shore
are the roots that once made me,
In the little town of Avon,
and when all the walls are caving
and hunger turns to craving
I retreat to Avon,
Avon by the sea
I took the train last September
Got off at Asbury Park
Strode the miles of boardwalk
Had to stop at coming dark.
I had regrets, I shed a tear
Then I saw a dolphin at setting light
At Ocean Grove I sat on a pier:
And on the shore it seemed alright.
I've paid my dues, I made my plea
They say I was guilty in the first degree
Let me lose the past in Avon,
I'll fly in like an escaping raven
Look! My friends are wildly wavin'
in Avon by the sea.
"To the White House he strode," sang his choir,
The elephants sparked a dumpster fire,
His words became its fuel,
Deceit was his tool,
While the donkeys cried foul: "He's a liar."
We need no DC to know all these things,
Just stamp your ear on the bald eagle’s wings.
You’ll see Iran sneezing;
And Israel pleasing,
Not too far away Gaza's sorrow rings.
Red Maple touted as the fifty-first.
PM as guvnor, a joke just nursed.
Donald talk’s just full of scare,
Yet Putin listens with care,
With the hope that the North's missiles won’t burst.
Troops in Damascus prepare to leave,
Trump's friend in Istanbul made Assad grieve.
To Moscow he fled,
In his tower he read,
The joy of this win, he wears on his sleeve.
A lion, a tin man, and a scarecrow.
Followed Dorothy, beyond the rainbow.
Singing and dancing, they strode,
Along the yellow brick road.
Where an old witch, plunged them knee deep in snow.
1l / 23 / 2024.
A wiz like no wizard before
A lion that wanted to roar
Tin man was hollow
That’s hard to swallow
But not like a man made of straw
Now Dorothy and her new friends
Took the road to see where it ends
The story is long
But don’t get me wrong
Click your heels three times and it ends
But heels don’t click well wearing slippers
You might as well try clicking flippers
Home, brain, courage, heart
They sought from the start
And Toto just sought chicken dippers
While seeking a voice that would bellow
They followed the road, strangely yellow
They strode feeling bold
But Toto was old
And also quite dribbly, poor fellow
But the wiz was a man behind drapes
He looked like he couldn’t crush grapes
His voice, someone cried
Has been amplified
And he’s got a balloon for escapes
What have I forgot or omitted
In this tale where weirdness has flitted
There’s witches, good and bad
And so much that is mad
That somebody should be committed
The new Secretary of the HHS?
How did we ever get into this mess?
'Twas when into RFK Jr's brain it strode,
an enterprising nematode.
screaming fryish in their
lyvish friars
oob noobschbu
your gandersalps! and nighfry
the gallant swurpenchraft
whoop hollar
victories of count oopenweir
and his lustful countehsee
gweniviere
when the jugg headed blastywhines
strode the sacred twimanors aisle
O quarterhorse
O moonshep
the clipshank whitebootz upon us!
on naught in vain do we ever
for old twumpvines ner'
done stomped
Today we took a lovely walk
On quiet country roads,
Where the autumn trees surround
The rural one of our abodes.
A hundred miles later,
We strode briskly, I should note,
From our main home, an apartment,
To the place where we could vote.
Now, to cast an early ballot,
We were luckily assigned
To a great New York museum,
So, of course, we then combined
An important civic duty
With a visit worth a view
Of a very cool exhibit,
Which we always love to do.
Our two living quarters equal,
Since they’re small, an average house,
Yet this singular arrangement
Works for me and for my spouse.
When the two halves come together,
In the ways I love the best,
I feel happy and contented,
Which, by now, you might have guessed.
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