by the light of the m👀n
in the blue @fterⁿ°°ⁿ
həy ****** ******
a cat p!ays a fiddle,
a li'l d●g nam'd Skiffle
laffs like fracking a nut house,
& a cøw jnmps
👁ver a runcible §poon)

How, or when, or what is not the Akond of SWAT?

Does he pick his nose with his fingers and toes?
When he smells a rose does he slime the rose                 with SNOT,
                                                           ­                       The Akond of Swat?

When he texts a text does he always press SEND?
When he chats online does he chat with a friend            or a BOT,
                                                            ­                      The Akond of Swat?

Does he breakdance, jitterbug, krump, or twerk?
Will he dance a jigg, or jive, or ****,                               or GAVOTTE,
                                                        ­                          The Akond of Swat?

When he eats a banana, does he eat the peel?
Has he eaten an eclectic electric eel                                or a BRAT,
                                                           ­                       The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
When or how or what is not
                                                           ­                       The Akond of Swat!

There was an Old Man of Japan
Whose lim-er-icks never would scan.
     When they said, "What the fu?"
     He replied, "They're haiku!"
That Irish Old Man of Japan.

Twinkle twinkle is the twisted little philosophy of the past.
Stars are burning some where burning, and what you see is a funeral.

Today we learn even the little step bring progress.

O noble muse, where perched thou singing?
And in what ear, upon what summer's day?
When our bard begot this, his least good play?
Your graces to some other were bringing,
To prose and verse with beauty adorned;
For, on sitting down to read this once again,
I see well why this one is scarce performed:
For to read it causes me less joy than pain.
My worthy bard, it is as I did fear:
Of all your plays of ******* and kings equal,
There have been none as good or fine as Lear!
What madness prompted you to try a sequel?
An orchard of fine works you have begotten,
But of your tragic fruit this one is rotten.

Their is a woman sitting by a tree
watching one buzzy bee;
She starred until it flew from flower to flower
(hhm. how long the wings flap per-hour?),
*Pretty bee dont sting me

The feather stirs,
She lives!
Howl, she does not,
If she did her breath would mist the stone.

My poor fool,
Hang'd.
Look on her,
Her lips,
Look on her lips.

How pathetic a mirror and a feather
and an old king seem now.
She was Christ-like,
Angelic,
Look on her lips.
The Fool,
Hang'd.

Do you see this?
No breath mists the stone,
No feather stirs,
Look on her,
Look there, look there.

You men have hearts of stone.