"artful" poems
Ah yes, the magic of human touch,
Trusting to warm my soul's skin
Tis nature of loves connection, as such.
My body accepts, oh if you only knew
Like an honored guest, I grin
Anticipating the pleasures, one of the few.
Skin to skin, our bodies converse.
Uninhabited, my mind wander
Deep inside, my craving thirsts.
Artful hands sculpt with purpose
Lulling layers open, you're quite the artist
Soothing caress melt my body formless
I'm yours, silently, I surrender.
As my flesh cries out for more
Arching waves of splendor
Rewarded my senses sated.
With newfound clarity reborn
Mind, body and spirit replenished.
I thank you for your gift of touch.
Lovingly, I would return the favor,
as such.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
rich with the depth
and intensity
of oxidized blood,
a plushness caresses my bare skin.
my fingers tracing against the grain of the fabric
slowly seducing
as the canvas
becomes duo chrome
the tip of my finger
a nymph
cunning and artful
the strokes
offering an insatiable
thirst
yet so in control
finally it succumbs
turning a tide of new color
permeating from where my touch once was
a culmination of sorts
leaving you enamored.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He’s always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;
So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle;
But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
7.3k
Absence of malice
Her smile whispers
Eyes in agreement
with subtle grace
Indulged gestures
I prearrange
From the first place
am I caught in a haze
With the rate of exchange
and no charming phrase
Exquisite delicacies seem ornamental
yet feels pretty real
her flirtatious displays
No harm
I can still be sentimental
As I take note to compose
then reappraise
Empirical proof
whether artful or not
Her passes are strickly incidental
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Have you met the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man?
He scammed fig leafs in the garden,
And **** cloth in Ottoman.
outside-in, inside-out; upside-down, right-side up
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can cuss.
He offers snake oil, spins a tale,
So you feel smart, healthy and hale.
from top to bottom, bottom to top
The Who-gee Boo-gee Man can't stop.
He swrawls with a Sharpie pen.
right is left, left is wrong
That's the Who-Gee Boo-Gee song.
Consultation for now is free,
No hidden added extra fees:
You buy two, you get three.
north to south, east to west
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man won't rest.
I've heard his feet are cloven;
The eyes are yellow, lips look swollen;
He has two fingers, wears silk- woven.
He sweats like water to the lowest level;
He's quicker than the slyest devil,
Selling hell, but we hear heaven;
Doing so twenty-four seven.
He photo-shops secret desires,
Twists truth-tellers into liars;
Artful, wily, scheming, subtle,
The Who-Gee Boo-Gee's a hungry jackal.
*today is the day, yesterday's late,
tomorrow's a place that just won't wait*
I met up with the Who-Gee Boo-Gee Man,
Peddling apples from my jardain.
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
What's on your mind?
in facebook you constantly find
This quote always flashes
to remind you of life's rushes
But seriously, look within
and see what thrives inside
Look for thoughts sinking in
and bade them all to come alive
Make your words artful
as that drip of ink caresses the paper
Make them a phrase so wonderful
That people may be happier
Inspire people who has no idea
and save ones that are lost
Open the curiosity jar like Pandora
and let's HOPE we make the most
From dreams in paper
to songs of unending summers
From snowdrop love letters
to eulogies of sorrowful winters
From the heart through the mouth
leave a print of beauty behind
Be it raw, bare or shouting out
never be afraid to speak "What's on your Mind"
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
It was the watermelon diet, he said
That's what killed me
A lie as ripe as the freshest rind
Listen to the man
He was there at my deathbed
Though he never cared for my diet
It was the watermelon diet
not some virus
That consigned me to the Gods
The watermelon diet
Why now do they doubt my exotic pallet?
They've turned a blind eye to everything else
until now
For months, I guzzled nothing but sweet watermelon
Fat mounds of flesh between my greedy cheeks
The sheer volume of water left me bloated
Before I shed an immense amount of baggage
What else could be to blame?
Enough of your questions and on to the cremation
We'll see whether watermelon burns immortal
It began in Africa- no lie there
And comes in seedless varieties
I never planted mine
Though I wasn't want for trying
I can still taste the bitter juices as I lay here in my crypt
An artful coroner smelt a rat
Or a chance- to prove his mettle
Never heard of any watermelon diet
This is Palm Springs not Papa Nu Guinea
A sample of tissue foiled our grand conspiracy
Same thing that got Rock Hudson
But they kept a straight face
Kept to the story, mindful of my legacy
I'm not just any ******
Takes something grand and elaborate to dispose of me
An immigrant farmhand once told me “watermelon cure the AIDS”
And I believed him
At least that's what I'd have you believe
End
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Tell me then ,
why they're fated together? The pen and the ink ?
The ink lies meek
With the pen it doth speak.
soaked in spirits powerful
Moulding mundane to artful.
That's why they're fated together !
Silent fingers woven around
Through the pen's lips my poetry's bound
Mere words nothing but mute
Breathes life my ink absolute.
That's why they're fated together !
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 11:04 PM UTC
the chase is the start of Cora's dream
in which she is a woman, Persephone
Persephone does not run nor hide
as she is seized by the dragon below the tide
she disguises her sorrow with beauty and grace
as she soars to live in the Other Place
the dragon is a man of whom craves her love
but she flies away, a mystical dove
the man wants Persephone by his side
but he is alone when spring arrives
no one at all can hold her back
she holds your life close in her eyes of black
as the flowers bloom in Cora's dream, all see the wings of Persephone
Persephone does not call or cry
she ends her captivity above the sky
Cora, Persephone, artful and strong
she has owned her life all along
Cora's dream
she is queen
the myth became her memory
mysteries revealed, secrets uncovered
ruler of seasons, angel like no other
Majestic One, she has no home
in Cora's dream, she was born to roam
she creates the storms and dries up the rain
she is a woman you cannot obtain
Cora's dream
she is queen
the myth became her memory
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 7:32 PM UTC
the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
flowers, cheers, tears, a thunderous
accolade.
I have not seen this particular musical
but I know if I had that I wouldn't have
been able to bear it, it would have
sickened me.
trust me on this, the world and its
peoples and its artful entertainment has
done very little for me, only to me.
still, let them enjoy one another, it will
keep them from my door
and for this, my own thunderous
accolade.
from The Olympia Review - 1994
4.5k
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.
They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.
Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!
Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.
One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.
Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.
Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.
In some moment one won't expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
The wind whispered his name.
He lingered, but he did not listen.
The sun shone it's bright face
Warmly upon his disgrace
And made his skin to glisten.
Bright leaves spun and danced
Taking every momentary chance
To entertain a sullen passerby
Who never did lift his eye.
He was not destined to know
Because he missed the show.
He didn't hear the music of birds,
The crickets all went unheard.
The sun might have been dim;
Rainbows were unseen by him.
He took no joy in a warm breeze
Unless it made him sneeze.
No human could catch his eye,
He was aware of no passersby.
There was no color to his sorrow
No yesterday or tomorrow,
Just the sameness painted gray
That he lived in every day.
The artist that is every day life
Painted his world with palette knife
And every kind of artful brush
But could not interrupt the hush
Of he who looked but did not see
Anything real in his reality;
His discourse with the world
Had become a sad soliloquy
He created his own catastrophe
Sculpting his world without mastery.
His sins bore him sorely down
Bent over nearly to the ground.
A painful stoop to his shoulder
He rested on a nearby boulder.
Replaying his dreadful history
He vowed to keep it a mystery.
He would refuse to bear witness
Certain there was no forgiveness.
He felt he was no better than sod,
Was a disappointment to God,
And in all there was in creation.
He was unworthy of salvation.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
October 20, 2018
I've spent this year
Learning how to deal.
This isn't melodrama
Just the truth
Condensed into just a few words
To express a vastness
Guaranteed to fill a few pages.
Like all years, it's been bittersweet.
I've fallen down
Tripped up
Left a bruise
Quite a few times.
But, of course
You have to fall --
Maybe even bleed a little --
In order to teach yourself
The triumph
Of bringing yourself
Back to your feet.
I've stood in front of a lot of mirrors
Most of them metaphysical
Truly getting to know the girl
On the other side.
The more we talk
The more I like her.
She's a hot mess sometimes, sure
But she's kind of a cool person to have coffee with.
She doesn't look like she used to, not at all
Especially when she's obviously trying to do better.
She still chews her tongue a bit
When she admits that she's wrong
And she's so very shy
When I ask her what to do
And she responds:
"I don't know."
I should tell her that I love her
A lot more often this year.
I've found that the heart is a wonderfully strange instrument
And that the soul is not an *****
But is something very, very real.
I've found that the former
Is as good at persevering
As it is at making messes
And that the latter
Is something all-too-useful
In the modern world.
I've found that most friends are fairweather
And, often, so am I.
I still hold out hope
That, maybe one day
I'll discover loyalty
That can be truly permanent.
Lastly, I've found that poetry
Is a beautiful vessel
Worth so much more
Than worrying about boys
Through a series of rhymes.
It's quickfire, artful catharsis
Freeing a caged dove
With words that make me feel
As if I can make my writing soar.
It's filled to the brim with love
And laughter
And tears
And imagination
And anger
And fear
And reflection
Just like these passing years.
And with every one I finish
I long for many more.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC
Write everyday, too much
That's a commandment for a to do list
in hopes it will manifest into routine
I can store the text in the internet
It's safer that way, these days
Store it in a place that actually doesn't exist
How can it be lost?
There's too many spies making logs
and in the rare artful moment of an agent
maybe I'll get discovered
Not banking on it
I'm throwing all my eggs at random houses
and wearing the wicker basket as a helmet to protect from backlash
in hopes that, by then, my poet spirit could leap from treetop to treetop
to avoid hollow bullets
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
I love you
like an eternally expanding universe
seen with the clarity
of a thousand Hubble telescopes
your swirling galaxies
artful nebula
tranquil skies
your solid core
I love you
in molten tongues
calling from the void
two nuclear souls
colliding
every atom undone
fused together
to make one
I love you
until the thread is cut
my free-falling light
so high on your atmosphere
reshaped by your gravity
a meteorite wish
sweet ashes
to your dust
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:25 AM UTC
Discernment of facts escape a blind eye
Incalculable deceit fell upon naive assumptions of decorum
Virtues so easily replaced by a blanket of colorful chattel
Now, countless blankets dance about, as ghosts
on a paved route chosen with intent of endless future passage
And now, to escape the realm of falsities
every eventide is exchanged for repose and closed eyes
Pleasure, promises, and poetry she gave
only to have something to take away
In vengeance of a caustic past
Aphrodite unleashed artful malevolence into a fallen heart
Oh, how so much exists
where there is nothing
Emptiness can be full of such desire
And oh, the bitter taste of sweet words
from the unrestrained lips of a liar
An offering cloaked with savory fruit in cordial hands
Swearing to give it all in the big apple
and then seducing to her roots in the yard
Absorbing a soul
Only to create a martyr of forlorn cause
An abomination can appear so sweet
when emptiness needs filling
A demon from below,
delightful,
before killing
Nostalgia, a trail of footsteps in the mud
Like a fingerprint with an unquestionable owner
Arduous wails reaching the extents of one's universe
as a pawn and patriarch share reflection in the stagnant tide
knowledge of good and evil, once a desire, now a curse
yet, finally held
Gratefully numb with inescapable acceptance
Scott Mitchell
09 Dec 2012
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
I imagine you
ever blooming
ever radiant
ne'er had you budded
nor will you wilt
poise pristine
artful to the letter
my memories of you
shall ne'er
idle in memoriam
they are
crisp and clear as daybreak
the sight of you breaks me open
not the raging flow of magma
nor the rushing of a river
neither the shooting of a star
ne'er the passing of time itself
what flows from me is pure
as it must be to be worthy
of your charm and wit and passion
my veins pulse with imbibed inspiration
I drink you in like forests drink the universe
slow and gentle
patient and careful
deep thirsts masked by soft touch
lust of your form masked by song
for your beauty is lyric personified
you are desire's orchestra
a tempest of pleasure
a monolith of midnight
towering with grace
casting shadows that embrace
long, oh, long I wait
in the dark
of the folds of your flower
caressed by your mercy
your silken petals soothe me
as I dream
as I pine
for a taste sure to be sweeter
than the bitter chaste of loneliness...
Oct 18, 2022
Oct 18, 2022 at 10:37 PM UTC
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
She wooes the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o’er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
’Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune’s brow
Soft Reflection’s hand can trace,
And o’er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour,
Or deepest shades, that dimly lour
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads
See a kindred Grief pursue;
Behind the steps that Misery treads
Approaching Comfort view:
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again:
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
3.2k
Daughter of a rocket scientist
son of a nuclear engineer
and they begat a son
a boy
too starry-eyed to question the stars—
the way they hang in space, the fusion
that keeps them burning brightly,
or how to launch an object past them—
more concerned with the constellations
of perfect freckles found on his beloved's shoulders
a boy
too enthralled with Existence
and describing it in artful words
to contemplate its composition
or to ponder Existence's place
on Other Worlds
a boy
enraptured with the Changing of the Seasons—
photosynthesis and
chloroplasts and
planetary tilt?
Irrelevant
a boy
who'd rather write of Love
than consider its chemical makeup
or wonder how or why it is
who'd prefer to write of leaves
dancing spirals in the breeze
than aerodynamics and
air resistance and
gravitational pull
a boy
who sometimes stops
and only ponders Science
concerning his Genetics
and wonders where it all was lost.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.
Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.
And his wife used to cry, 'If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.
Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
'What the divil and all is this christenin'?'
He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.
So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened —
''Tis outrageous,' says he, 'to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'
Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the 'praste' cried aloud in his haste,
'Come out and be christened, you divil!'
But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
'I've a notion,' says he, 'that'll move him.'
'Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy — don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.
'Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name —
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout —
'Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!'
As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled 'MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!
And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened 'Maginnis'!
3.1k
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC