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Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Nursery time
A for Apple,
B for Ball,
C for Cat
We all have learned  this rhyme
Best to be inside the System.
  
Our grand father did it
Father, after following
Taught us, the same
Best to be inside the System
  
Now,
We all realize,
There are thousands of words,
Beside Apple, Ball and Cat
Started from,
The same old
Nursery A, B, C
    
When fruits seller’s child
Remembers A, B
Apple comes with responsibility
Per kg. Rs. 250
Banana comes with responsibility
Per Count Rs. 10
      
I might be wrong,
I asked him, for the latest updates
  
With professional voice,
He replied,
“Price changes with supply and demand.”
    
What they don’t teach in the school
What matters in the real world.
Real life education, a need.
Steve Page Jan 2018
A dab of rhythm
and a splash of rhyme
over a stretched canvas
of childhood
bring to mind
daffodils on clouds
and tygers burning their way
through forests
while the dying jaberwocky smiles
through fearsome jaws
bemused by the man waving
too far from shore.

And to one side a walrus
unconsolably weeps
having consumed
one too many oysters
unwittingly adding
to the commercial value
of the sea shells on the sea shore.

In the corner
a patient spider
chats to a passing fly,
oblivious of the forecast
of torrential rain,
which proves resistant
to any admonishments
to go away until another day.

Down comes the rain
and a hoard of children
pile into an old shoe
ignorant
of the empty food cupboard
thanks to their gluttonous dog.

And surveying the whole scene
is a benevolent coal stained king
smoking through a managerie of a beard,
wondering where his second shoe has gone to...

I sigh, put the kettle on
and whitewash the whole canvas
to start afresh.
With thanks to:
William Wordsworth
William Blake
Lewis Carroll
Stevie Smith
Anonymous
Mary Howitt
Sarah Catherine Martin
Mother Goose
Edward Lear
Traditional
James Court Dec 2017
Mary had a little lamb,
two lobsters and a Christmas ham,
a three-pound tub of chicken wings,
seven bratwurst tied with strings,
thirteen loaves of garlic bread,
a schnitzel bigger than her head,
four rare steaks, a dozen eggs,
caviar and turkey's legs,
strips of bacon, mushroom stew,
chunks of bread and cheese fondue,
and two whole jars of sauerkraut,
(to clean all of her insides out).

Finishing the pasta salad,
Mary soon looked drawn and pallid.
"I don't feel well," poor Mary said.
"I think I need to rest my head."
Then from her stomach came a moan,
a straining, churning, twisted groan.
Mary gasped; her eyes grew wide.
She'd only seconds to decide.
What could she do? Where could she go?
Her stomach was about to blow!
So, reaching for the nearest bucket,
she retched, and then began to chuck it.

All the courses that she'd swallowed,
and the apertifs they'd followed,
all the steaks and all the fish,
each and every single dish
came flying back from in her belly,
filling up the bucket smelly
with a foul and toxic brew,
and no one knew quite what to do,
so this went on for ten whole minutes
till Mary had expelled her innards.
When she was done, her eyes were red,
and sweat was pouring from her head.

"Are you alright, sweet Mary dear?"
her mother asked. She didn't hear.
For Mary was already off -
the waiters saw her try to scoff
the whole entire pudding bar.
Now, this had pushed her mum too far.
"Alright!" her mother cried, "I'm through!
I've done the best that I can do.
I'm sick and tired of all you eat.
I will not pay for all this meat.
I'm going home. Go get some help —"
Then Mary's mum let out a yelp!

She glanced down at her legs and saw
sweet Mary there begin to gnaw!
She struck the lass, but with great haste,
alas, the girl had reached her waist.
As Mary's ma was there devoured
by her offspring, overpowered,
she cried one thing ere final slaughter:
"It smells like lamb in here, my daughter."
Mary licked her lips and grinned.
She belched out loud and then broke wind.
She felt her tummy start to rumble -
and calmly ordered apple crumble.
Don't judge me, I was really high when I wrote this.
Twinkle twinkle little glass
How fast can you make time pass
Soaring with us up so high
Tinting our lips red like fire
Twinkle twinkle little glass
Fall and you shall turn to dust

Carelessly sprinkled glass shards
Coating the ground like stardust,
Ablaze under the golden sun
Crisp as grass under bare feet,
Cutting through skin with ease
Like a crystal catching light.
Glowing in it's glory
A harvest of crimson.
James Taylor Nov 2017
Do your palms get soft
When you finish wacking off
Are they icky and they're sticky
Like a snail or a moth
Do you try to wipe they clean
On your jacket or your jeans
Do your palms, get, soft

Do your palms get soft
Before you turn the shower off
Because you just had to spank your monkey
While you're thinking bout your boss
Did those yoga pants she sported
Get you thinking really naughty
Do your palms, get, soft

Do your palms get soft
In bed at night, when lights are off
When you really should be sleeping
But, instead you're jacking-off
Wishing that your next-door neighbor
Really owed you a big favor
Do your palms, get, soft
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
Hey ****** ******,
Some stars gotta fiddle
Just like a Catholic priest.
We have to give them credit,
God saved them when they did it.
And blessed them at the least.

Hey ****** ******
Fat Trump has to fiddle
With women he can control.
He pretends he doesn’t know
What that word simply shows
Since the last syllable is troll.

Hey ****** ******
A high powered fiddle
Is always powered by cash.
But, Mr. Diddler
Unlike a talented fiddler
You are nothing but overpaid trash.

Hey ****** diddledick
We all hope your fiddlestick
Falls off and lays on the ground
Then you could stop it
And the women could stomp it.
And kick your skanky *** around.
Eunoia Aug 2017
Twinkle, Twinkle little star
How are you my long lost love?
Up above the world so high
We lost each other and now you're gone
Twinkle, Twinkle little star
I saw you, you're with him now
Alec Jul 2017
little boy blue
blow your horn
don't regret being born
play your tune
you'll find love soon
and not be afraid anymore
little boy blue
don't be so sad
life doesn't always have to be so bad
just blow your horn
while sitting in a field of corn
little boy blue
your other colors will come soon.
honey May 2017
Threadbare tapestry
Spreading dust and memories
Unravels slowly
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