The sun was high, the day was bright,
But Malcolm’s world was far from right.
He paced the rug with a rhythmic gait,
Cursing the hand of a cruel, cruel fate.
For deep in the valley, where shadows reside,
Was a nagging sensation he couldn't quite hide.
It started out small, a
tickle, a tease,
Like a moth in the pantry or a soft summer breeze.
But soon it grew bold, a prickly demand,
A mountain of mischief in a forbidden land.
He tried to be subtle, he tried to be slick,
Using the corner of a chair for a quick, sneaky flick.
He shifted in meetings, he squirmed in his seat,
Attempting a "wiggle" that looked quite discreet.
But the itch was a warrior, stubborn and stout,
Demanding attention, a frantic "Scratch me!" shout.
He thought of the causes—the spice of the wings?
Or the laundry detergent that frequently stings?
He retreated at last to the stall in the hall,
To answer the desperate, internal call.
With a sigh of relief that reached to his soul,
He finally conquered the itch in the hole.
The battle was over, the peace was restored,
Until the next time that his backside got bored.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 11:49 AM UTC
The sun was high, the day was bright,
But Malcolm’s world was far from right.
He paced the rug with a rhythmic gait,
Cursing the hand of a cruel, cruel fate.
For deep in the valley, where shadows reside,
Was a nagging sensation he couldn't quite hide.
It started out small, a
tickle, a tease,
Like a moth in the pantry or a soft summer breeze.
But soon it grew bold, a prickly demand,
A mountain of mischief in a forbidden land.
He tried to be subtle, he tried to be slick,
Using the corner of a chair for a quick, sneaky flick.
He shifted in meetings, he squirmed in his seat,
Attempting a "wiggle" that looked quite discreet.
But the itch was a warrior, stubborn and stout,
Demanding attention, a frantic "Scratch me!" shout.
He thought of the causes—the spice of the wings?
Or the laundry detergent that frequently stings?
He retreated at last to the stall in the hall,
To answer the desperate, internal call.
With a sigh of relief that reached to his soul,
He finally conquered the itch in the hole.
The battle was over, the peace was restored,
Until the next time that his backside got bored.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Have yourself a good laugh. Listen to this poem turned into song at the link below.
https://suno.com/s/homxsSjjd4FdzUR7
