For God so loved the world
That He sent His only Son
That whosoever will...
Really!?!
But not these and those
Who corrupt the image
Of what looks good
...so, I will cling, to the Old Rugged Cross
Nothing can separate us from LOVE
Neither death nor life
Nor angels, nor principalities...
Really!?!
But not this and that
Causing eternal damnation
To the influenced soul
...so, I will cling, to the Old Rugged Cross
If any man be in Christ
He is a new creature
Behold old things are passed away
Really!?!
Surely not thingamagigs and whatchamacallits
Who look like hell itself
Bringing babies to question
...nope, absolutely not...
........so I will cling to the OLD RUGGED CROSS
Forever marked by FEAR
Written by Trudy Schrader on 07-19-2023
Well-established wonder-stricken wayfarers will work with wizards,
who worry worm-eating warblers will wander by with Wyandottes.
Witchdoctors wallowing with Weiss beer will widen willowy wonky
widow’s walks. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Wonderful wearisome woolly Willies whose wrinkly wiggly whatchamacallits will weigh whizzing wingfish whipped wildly within Widow Williams’s whirlybird’s window wells. Who? What? When? Why? Why not?
Why wayfarers? Witches? Wizards, Wolverines? Witchdoctors? Well, woks, workbenches, wobbly wickiups, were wildly wanting whiffle ball’s wishful wildcats, which is why we were willing to wind up wolves, women, and worst-case woodcocks into worthy wayfarer’s winter wineglass widgets within wonderful, wise-cracking
woodland’s wee-folk who reside within wizardly wigwams.
Who? What? When? Where? Why? Why not?
Warm whoopee wayfarers welcome willing witchdoctor's whizzing whatchamcallits on Wednesdays with wonderfulness.
Melancholy water bug softly eating.
Linda rolling, endless, leaping.
Gentle passion lazily beating.
Salty apparition, silent, peeping.
Huge white horses gently blow,
Looming, ghostly white horses.
In summer breakers they surf and flow,
Beautiful, mostly complex courses.
Softly looming lazy Lin
Lifts her smooth, clog-clad fin.
Melancholy cricket clicks and hisses,
Waking, Tom, who hastily kisses.
Pungent passion water spout,
Crashing sexy lovers seeping.
Two little whatchamacallits twist and shout,
To summer Linda, swimming, reaping.
Skinny Linda gently ebbing.
Foamy spray sifts through her webbing.
Warm Tom lovingly stirring, laughing.
Fleet water beings jumping and splashing.
Eerie floating cytoplasmic forms
In pools of soupy water streams.
In pungent living sunspot storms
He cooks water bug love in the beams.
Hershey, Pennsylvania’s a place I would like to go.
It is essentially a chocolate El Dorado.
This little town somewhere in the middle of the state
is truly a place many people consider great.
It’s just full of chocolate goodies without any doubt.
You can get chocolate bars with almonds, or some without,
and peanut butter cups, kisses, and others galore;
enough is there to satisfy anyone, and more!
This is a town I would be proud to call my birthplace
if I were made of chocolate with “HERSHEY” on my face.
A bunch of “Whatchamacallits “would be my brothers,
and tall stacks of Kit-Kat bars I would call my sisters.
How many people would want to take a bite of me?
Supposing this was all true and not mere fantasy?
I would have plenty of relatives for all to see.
Together, we would be one big happy family.
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