Leg ends on the road, they wibble and wobble,
Dancing in the moonlight, they giggle and gobble.
They chase the shadows, hop and skip,
With a flip-flop, they never trip.

Wiggly-waggly, to and fro,
Leg ends travel, where do they go?
Through fields of jelly and pudding hills,
They sing with glee and joyful thrills.

Tickling tulips and teasing trees,
Leg ends float on the evening breeze.
Munching on moonbeams, sipping stars,
They journey far in flying cars.

In a land where the silly meets the sweet,
Leg ends on the road never miss a beat.
With laughter loud and smiles so wide,
Their nonsense dance is a magical ride.

And as they wander, tales unfold,
Leg ends transform to legends bold.
A misheard word, a laugh it sends,
When "leg ends" are heard in place of "legends."

It broke, it broke, the teapot spoke,
In a language only kettles know.
The saucer sighed, the cup just cried,
And the sugar bowl put on a show.
The spoon did dance, a silver prance,
While the fork played a tune on the side.
The knife, so sharp, began to harp,
About the time it nearly died.
The clock struck twelve, the mouse did delve,
Into a cheese that wasn’t there.
The cat meowed, the dog just howled,
At the moon that hung in the air.
The table shook, the cookbook took,
A leap into the soup ***’s arms.
The chair did spin, the broom jumped in,
And the mop sang of distant farms.
The windowpane, it felt the strain,
Of the wind that whispered tales.
The curtain swayed, the dust parade,
Marched on with tiny tails.
The lamp did flicker, the shadows bicker,
About who was the darkest of all.
The rug did slide, the floor just sighed,
As the pictures began to fall.
The doorbell rang, the toaster sang,
A song of burnt toast and jam.
The fridge did hum, the blender spun,
And the microwave said, “Wham!”
The house did creak, the hinges squeak,
In a symphony of sounds so grand.
The walls did laugh, the chimney chaff,
At the antics of this merry band.
It broke, it broke, the teapot spoke,
In a world where nonsense reigns.
But in the end, my dear old friend,
It’s the joy that does remain.

In the town of Loughborough, where sheep
Outnumber people, and the rain falls soft,
There lived a man named Bob, who had a dream
To build a rocket ship from old tin cans

He scoured the town for parts, a toaster here,
A broken vacuum there, and soon enough,
His yard became a scrapyard, much to the
Dismay of Mrs. Crumble next door.

“Bob, what on earth are you up to?” she’d shout,
As he welded bits of metal in the night.
“I’m off to Mars, dear Crumble, can’t you see?
I’ve got a date with destiny and stars!”

The townsfolk gathered 'round to watch the show,
As Bob unveiled his masterpiece of junk.
With duct tape, glue, and hope, he climbed inside,
And pressed a button labelled “Up We Go!”

The rocket sputtered, coughed, and then it soared,
A tin can comet streaking through the sky.
The sheep looked up, bemused, and chewed their cud,
While Mrs. Crumble fainted on the spot.

Bob’s rocket flew past clouds and birds and planes,
And soon enough, he found himself in space.
He marvelled at the stars, the moon, the Earth,
And thought, “Well, this is quite a lovely view.”

But then he heard a clank, a groan, a snap,
And realized his ship was failing fast.
He grabbed a wrench, a hammer, and some tape,
And tried to fix the mess he’d made of things.

Alas, poor Bob, his rocket was no match
For gravity’s relentless, mighty pull.
He crash-landed in a farmer’s field of corn,
And crawled out, dazed, but grinning ear to ear.

The farmer scratched his head and asked,
“What now?” Bob laughed and said, “I think I’ll try again.
But first, a cup of tea, a nap, and then,
I’ll build a better rocket, just you wait!”

And so, in Loughborough, the legend grew,
Of Bob, the man who aimed to reach the stars,
With nothing but his wits, some junk, and dreams,
And made the town a little brighter too.

It was January last Wednesday,
When the moon turned bright green,
The stars danced a tango,
And the sun wore a sheen.
The clouds sang a lullaby,
To the mountains so high,
While the rivers played hopscotch,
With the fishes passing by.
The trees whispered secrets,
To the birds in the air,
And the flowers wore hats,
Made of chocolate eclairs.
The wind told a joke,
That made the rocks laugh,
And the grass did a jig,
On the giraffe’s behalf.
So if you see a rainbow,
On a snowy summer’s day,
Just remember this tale,
Of January last Wednesday.

i'm restles§ & laZy
& wirəd & tired
& not ⁿ°ⁿuncraZy
& antiadmired

a little bit manic
& chillaxed as a maniac
i picnic with Panic
& retardədly brainiac

& God as my wittiness
i'm ●ver herə trying
to c○pe with the shittiness
of living while dying

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 maniac,
& a cøw jnmps
👁ver a runcible §poon)

Gnash and Gnaw
a story book
of semantically related tales.

Troublesome twosome
words that stitch
a crossword of misrepresentation.

Incredibly Inedible
plasterboards
of unrequited dining.

Grotesque - ******
inevitable
struggles of theocracy.

Grace and _
spared from false
synchronicity.

I have worked out small talk

two people ask questions
of each other, neither
want an answer to
and without listening
to what the other comes up with
think of the next manoeuvre  
until they are locked
in meaningless conversation
that no one can break
like music, a symphony
of nonsense with the guy
on symbols waiting
to crash out at the end