In fair Stratford-on-Avon
Is where we set our stage,
This town where
Our Bard was born,
The man for all ages.

In The White Swan
John's son, Will,
Was rightly being toasted.
Young Will had a way with words,
And used his quill
To turn girls' heads
Toward his finest,
His best bed.

Halfway down Market Street,
Just before the Barber's,
Lived the Hathaway girl, Ann.
Some locals called her Cougar.

Will didn't know how old she was
For she didn't look her age.

A few months on,
Her belly grown
They held a cross-bow wedding.
Ensuing vows
The reception crowd
Filed into The White Swan,
Raised their tankards
To toast the couple
With this Avon song:

*Shakespeare hath
His will with her,
But Ann hath-a-way.

Chocolate in,
Chocolate out;
Eating chocolate
Makes me doubt
The lease I have
With Hershey.
But I'm not
In a hurry,
I'll sit here
And not worry.
I'll give a wipe
Then scurry
For another bar.
But my gut's  feeling's
I won't get far.

Next Sunday
When he leaves
The tomb,
And it's sunny,
Before noon,
Should his shadow
Fall on a sinner,
We've six more weeks
Of a Canadian winter.

Martha was ugly, like a shaven baboon.
So she wrapped herself up in a curtain cocoon.
One week later, she finally emerged---
She smelled like ****.
What a ******!

What is a wet cat called?
"Stupid"
That's what the fish gurgled
That's what they laughed,
There bubbles of ridicule
Burst on my submerged ****.

I'm glad none took a bite, they
Were meant as lunch, but a wash
Was all I had.For they were but a snack,
A meal to be had, but I was the
Last laugh, as cats and water don't
Mix like fish and dry land.

I'm glad there memory fades, and
Doesn't last, for how could I keep
This a secret, that a cat out played
By fish in a bowl who got the *last laugh.

up among the violet of a Wisteria vine
among all the dogwood blooming white
sat one Yellow-breasted chat
heard but not seen

calling a mate from another nest
all day long he hid
and trysted with a variety of his
fellows mates

when he returned to his nest he
rested until
Mrs Yellow-breast chat smelled

a faint odor of slight perfume
on his beak
saw his eyes flutter

knew he was not out chasing worms

she more than laid
an egg

Inspector Jim was clueless about the case
The sniffer dog followed quite a long trail
Leading to everything but the criminal’s trace
Ending finally in an abandoned well!

He had second thought about the animal’s skill
Panting from the run to keep with its pace
At end of hunt not deriving a little
Left to ***** in the muddled mess!

The track was a meadow the season was spring
So much were laid for the eyes to feast
Birds and trees and all the best things
But Jim was enveloped in the riddle’s mist!

He was still stranded on the same ground
Fearing once again he might fail
This is where the body was found
The darned beast had led him back to the well!

A hit!
     That's it!

A like!
     Might spike.

A comment!
     An event.

A collection!
     Not done.

A repost!
     Thanks host.

A trend!
     Near the end.

The Daily.
     Mais, Oui!

if losing your mind is poetry,
my head deserves a ******* nobel peace prize.

(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)