what is a cat with no stripes?
who tells riddles day and night?
what cats grins?
mind like a loony bin?
the Cheshire? certainly not him!

I am singing a song of singing!
it a song of singing a song!
you sing when you sing a song of singing
because you are singing!
a song!
lla lalaaallaalalalaala'
that is singing a song
for singing has doe,
which are dear
and deer are dear
and dear have no dough so
they are pointless to rob.
unless your name is ray,
who is singing
a song of singing
becuase he is a singing a song of dough, on doe,
and this song it makes doe dough grow
with the sing of the singing of the song!
singing like me
who i call myself
since ray is not me, he is a ***!
a *** who is singing a song, a song about being sung!
i am singing a song of singing!
it a song of singing a song!
you sing when you sing a song of singing
because you are singing!
a song!

I am a bug
mew mew mew
hi lets all wave to the stew!
bubble bubble bump
stew down my shirt front
hi shirty stew
can you mew?
Indeed I do too!
mew mew mew
look the grass grew!
mmmm sunshine on the dew
dew ten feet high
that grass REALLY grew
and now i must say good by to the stew
but he did leave some mildew
green green and fuzzy!
ooh so lovey dovey
i just want to stroke it all day;
and not in a lewd way...
green and fuzzy
like grass;
only grass is not fuzzy
though if you get close enough
it does become blurry;
and blurry is bluzzy
and bluzzy if muzzy
and muZzy is muggy
and if you get that close
then the grass will mug you
just hand you a big mug of hot coco
mmmm hot coco
it melts dew!
it does!
hot like stew....
but stew doesn't melt dew
but will melt bugs.

Caw! caw!
I’m a sparrow;
Said the spontaneous raven.
And the cows did agree;
As the raven danced with glee.
And the cows  looked  on amused,
As they chewed their cud (food).
Eying mr. raven;
Eyeing, spying;
Wanting to make cud,
Of Mr. raven.
Who was namen’
The blood dripping from his stamen.
As pollen floated into his haven.
His face did bloom;
The cows did eat.
And a headless raven lay at their feet.

There once was a Man with head like a bucket,
Every time he spoke it sounded like hens being shot with a musket!
His face looked like a cross between a stove and a rake.
And every time he was seen;
The children’s laugh would grow to a ruckus!
He’d scream back things so obscene,
That  even insects fled the scene!
And he sounded a hen playing trumpet.
His tears would roll down his big bucket face,
Subdued; he would walk down the street,
With a simple trumpet of Fuckit’

Apathy,
it is a beautiful thing,
prevents any cares.
Any worries.
Prevents us from feeling a thing.
Day in.
Day out.
Drama and angst dilute out.
Their acid,
now no more caustic than water.

A toast to apathy's sweet embrace.
A wince to the wines bitter aftertaste.
Give me some sugar with my ***.
I can get drunk and forget
that acid on my tongue.

A toast to apathy's sweet embrace.
To her sugared veins,
to her sweeter lips.
To her wonderful poison,
numbing out:
pain
shame
and guilt trips.

Give me some sugar with my wine.
I want to forget.
I want to hide.
Just cling to that bony chest,
and pretend everything is fine.
...
...
...
But it’s not.
I just don’t care whether,
It is.
Or isn’t,
anymore.

Gone are the strings,
tying wings to sides.
Gone are the eyes,
and passive aggressive sighs.
Gone is the pseudo flight.
Which carried none of true flights delight.

Up here -
it’s all clear-

For,
up here, we are
no longer love blind.

Looking back from a mile high:
Viewing mountains climbed.
Rivers crossed,
and foes fought.
All for the same one,
who clipped my wings.
Who severed me from the sky.
And put blinders on my eyes.

In resolutions dawn.
Wings shine red.
The strings and blinders that held us back,
now forgotten and dead.