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Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Note to you: The rythymn-in-strument strums in stone geo-time.
To the drummers,
dis-passio ey okeh,
woodwinds dim-
oboe join in mit piccolo on the hummingbird whistles
Breezes, in the shade of a great rock,

real life rock, granite composed of not so tiny grains
of ground up uther utter star-stuff, side-
real asif intended for goodness

otherwise, how petrified I'd be come imagining the forming
of the
foundation of my life, as I know it,

it is un-believable, therefore
no lie,
the riddle arrives after ever begins

and, word has it, dear reader,
is your word now.
You may believe anything you wish,
with no
un-intended after math, after ever

Do you recall...
youth full quests completed alone?

Quests, Johnny Quest, Future Quest V.B.S.

believers, true believers being formed from childish hopes,
manifesting in grown liars stricken with

hidden child sym-drone
in the middle of booming thirty-something phase when
starts storing all the old stories,

building energy for the seventh decade fracture/crushing

soft blow breeze of free and easy musing re
songing a reason to belief
even in
a realm where lies never die.

Recall the old days, balance
bubbles and crossed hairs and roads
Balance factors, bubble balancing lead weight,
the Whole Earth Catalogue
balanced by the weight of the roof on Notre Dame being
melted along with the rest of the Greenland Ice sheet,

so superman eyes in our skies can see to the bedrock on
which the

Principle Thing
The root of evil has reached this point

this is after all that. Time-wise, in the arrow scenario.

Fair tales always win, sh'eros live for your examined life'sake

--- ranting old men come running down stairs
--- the hidden child has arrived

The golden headed child, meek and cold
in buried treasure

chests opened one last time for quadrupal by-pass

--- He's a donor
--- givem awish foundation
--- make this sacred

Mi-da's, well, he wished again,

he wished he lived in inter-sting times entertainment-wise

inward touching times imagined
in the addled golden child
brought to life in a virtual, al-most verifiable asnot art,
but not

very-fi-able, semper-fi-wise, if you

swore the oath. (It's a game, right, now game vows link for
in of by logic gated
mazes, do they? Amazing.  ) See,

from above, as below, pretend you know

all things, you can imagine

in my bubble, in the absolute absense of your

let. that act do. let us, the objective aspect of we,
the people who hold those famed

troothz, verities of any examind re-ality-ifity-isms

self-evidence for we

be letting be, believe me, that's no lie, you can doit, you can, you can
I imagine

and I accept we may mean more to me than thee,
however now
hapt, in qualia quantumical if-I-ability
entangled meanings
link us through

Disney-fictionation endo-crenalation, --||T|>>>--->
times half
Crea-nullated castle
link that sparked the aitia ifiabe
first caused
fall from the well
on the mountain

jack fell downbroke his crown
tumbling after bling bling bling

--- the sorcerors's apprentice was fired
--- they found errors in his
--- sin-tax

We can forgive such over-sight.
Blame the mycelum clan

better yet,
blame the clay eaters, no,
the clay wearers?

the clay bher-ers?
Ah, the clay bakers, fersher? Nae?

The clay, perse?
The dust we shuffle as we dance atop the stone?
The way of the rolling stone,
grinding, rolling-downhill-stone,
the stone rolled away,

the stone of the sysiphus-seen-hap-iuna

Blowing in the wind, lifted higher

Ax d'maji-yo, he know. 'Zeke 17, seven with a caballero v,
callit Macaronic be-bop

dodat, yankee doodle morph t' resound,
like poetry

at the gates
no enemey ever breached. The key truth, is that,

believe it, if you think you may.
Macaronic language is text that uses a mixture of languages,[1] particularly bilingual puns or situations in which the languages are otherwise used in the same context (rather than simply discrete segments of a text being in different languages). Hybrid words are effectively "internally macaronic". In spoken language, code-switching is using more than one language or dialect within the same conversation.[2]
Mere mention of his name
makes me want to dump...
donald chump
Flush him down and flush again to keep him in the ground.

Ashamed to claim my citizenship be a
laughingstock like him
the tyranny keeps growing
the future's looking grim
won't even wear my Yankee cap and hide under the brim

the problem is it's
not just him but also
those that grant him power  
they smell like shiza
and don't speak for me
so I decree they all need
a NiceAssZIppy shower
Like Manolo says in Scarface..... it's political mang

Bring your words and your feather let's have a duel my pencil will bring you to your knees you fool
Brent Kincaid Jan 2017
Yankee Doodle you’re a dope
And a brain-dead pigeon.
You elected a big mope
Who brought his villains with him.

Yank your doodle and keep it up
That should keep you busy.
Then we’ll all say look at him
He’s not worth much more, is he?

Yankee ******* went to DC
Just to make a fortune.
But his dreams of grandeur we
Found we can’t afford them.

Yankee Doodle is not one guy
Turns out it’s half a nation.
Now we have the piper to pay
And he will have his ration.

Yankee Doodle, bunch of fools
Easy to mislead them.
Now they have but fallow fields
And no good grain to feed them.

Yankee ******* feeds them lies
Says he’ll fix the whole thing.
Half the people said yes he will
The rest say who’s he kidding?

Yankee ******* is a man
Yankee Doodle's not one.
Yankee Doodle loves a fascist.
Omigod, they’ve got one!
Jackie Soar Apr 2016
I'm a Yankee in the South
Far from where I was bo-ahn,
Th' other half of this Country stout,
But not where I'd call home.

I talk too fast and walk too fast
And speak with easy grin;
And every word that I say once
I must repeat again!

If you're black you're Black, down he-ah,
and if you're white, you're White;
I don't fit well, I'm mostly brown,
They just don't feel it's right.

I work each Sunday in the sto-ah,
I do the work of three;
Back home I went to Sunday Mass
And Godless they call me.

Godless Yank, I'm rude, I'm cold,
I started the great War -
(Not our Great War, you see, but one
that came somewhat befo-ah).

I've tried their greens, I've tried their grits,
I've had biscuits n' gravy,
Oh what I'd give for chowdah hot
Or some lobstah tasty!

I like my tea, I like it hot,
Not sickly-sweet and iced,
Brew it black and brew it strong -
No  sweeter will suffice.

Well, I'm a Yankee in the South,
But I wish I'd never gone.
So in a month I'll pack me up
And home I'll be 'fore long!

I'll eat cannolli in North End,
I'll visit Fenway Pahk,
I'll watch the city glow with light
The minute it gets dahk.

I'll roam the rivers, fields and woods,
All dusted up with snow;
The northern bogs, the stony beaches,
That's what I call home!

I never should have come, I sweah,
I'll never go again;
There's plenty here to tide a girl
A hundred years and ten.

The long-sought day has dawned at last,
And now we'll sally forth,
So clear and a bit chilly, it's
A promise of the North.

We drove and drove and drove again,
And then we drove some mo-ah,
We started out at ten to six,
And now it's half-past fo-ah!

And when I'm shovelin' the snow,
Cursing potholes in the road,
I'll think of all the Southern folk
And smile at every load!

Well we're home again, we're home at last,
I won't leave anymo-ah,
I've proved without a doubt there is
Nuthin' to leave it fo-ah!

Well, I was a Yankee in the South,
It's not what I'd call nice,
And now I can concretely say
I wouldn't do it twice!
Old New Englanders have a long tradition of complaining in a way that's both witty and entertaining. I hope this poem falls somewhat near the mark. It was written a few years ago when I had to spend an unfortunate year in South Carolina. Critiques are welcome!

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