Strike like a dove with boxing gloves,
And mop up the trepidation
That spills from your mouth.
Punch into the heart of fear
And leap from the cloud that cascades
Into thunderous rapture.
Dance into the bossom of peace
And let love be your compass;
That guides you toward enlightenment.
The plumage of your soul is ruffled
By the ecstasy of the marching wind,
And the comprehensive gallop of hope
that stomps in the psyche,
flows fancifully from the hip.
strike like a dove with boxing gloves,
Climb into your spirit and let her rip.
To dance, to feel, to love.

Mrs. Suspicious,
Was doing the dishes,
And was worried
About the spider in the bath.
So she called on her husband,
Who sorts out problems
By the dozen, and yelled:

‘**** the monster on the march!'

So he got out his shotgun,
And thought this will be much fun,
And he made his way slowly
As he laughed.
But the spider was gone,
As he searched on and on,
But had no such luck as time passed.

'So did you find the spider?'
'No dear he slipped by us'
The spider made hiding an art.
Mrs. Suspicious baked a cake,
And with delight they both ate,
Of which the spider was a part.

The end of the cigarette
Burns off spaghetti strings,
While one eye is on the soup.
My shoes, which by the way
Are on my feet,
Swizzle and spin
As the thermometer bursts
From the heat of the kitchen.
The stars can be seen
Through the roof,
As the freezer lets off steam,
And I reach into my pocket
And pull out a rock,
Which I crush with my bare hands.