"coot" poems
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,
'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out,
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge,
It has more ivy; there the river; and there
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.
I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird;
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught
His weary daylong chirping, like the dry
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.]
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.
5.2k
I come from haunts of coot and hern;
I make a sudden sally;
I sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
At last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways
In sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bay;
I babble on the pebbles.
I chatter, chatter as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a ***** trout,
And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
To joing the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots;
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeams dance
Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.
~Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
Haunched like a faun, he hooed
From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost
Until all owls in the twigged forest
Flapped black to look and brood
On the call this man made.
No sound but a drunken coot
Lurching home along river bank.
Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank
Of double star-eyes lit
Boughs where those owls sat.
An arena of yellow eyes
Watched the changing shape he cut,
Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout
Goat-horns. Marked how god rose
And galloped woodward in that guise.
4.1k
Theres an original Aussie lingo
That out there one can hear~
Most of all when you are in the country
And places like that you love so dear~
RIPPA RITA , An aussie bush expression of rejoice~
When something really goes so well
And usually not by choice~
FAIR DINKUM means simply for real
Are you fair dinkum mate~
STRUTH another real Aussie expression
A bush word for something that you hate~
Just a few words of real Aussie lingo
You might hear now and again~
SEND HER DOWN HUGHY they'll cry
When they reall do need rain~
STONE THE CROWS you'll hear them yell
When something happens by surprise~
Often in the country
When they can't believe their eyes~
HOWZ ZAT a bloke will often call out
when he manages to do something better than right~
And very indeed proud of himself
Without trying to skite~
RIGHTIO dad will call out to mum
When she hollows don't forget to get the bread~
TOO FLAMEN RIGHT he'll say back to her
When she says well ... did ja get it ted~
YA GREAT GALLOOT is what they'll call you
When you do something really wrong~
So much original Aussie lingo
They should put it all within a song~
SHIELA'S are of course suingle women
Who often are as well called BIRDS~
All this fantastic Aussie terminology
How I miss all these words~
Ocker's are usually blokes in shorts and thongs
They call thongs Japanese riding boots~
CODJA'S are older blokes
Sometimes they call them COOT'S~
COCKIES are blokes that own properties
STRIKEN A BLOW is a term for work~
BLUDGERS are those that don't like do do it
And being lazy is to of course SHIRK~
All that age old aussie lingo
I miss it so I do~
Can't wait to say HOWZ YA GOEN MATE
And G DAY to a mate or two~
It's all got a sound of it's own
One gets used to it in life~
Like the LITTLE WOMEN and THE BETTER HALF
Is what they call a wife a wife~
( Was'nt game to use spell check lol )
https://youtu.be/PT331BRkkP0
Terrence Michael Sutton
Copyright 2018
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Suffered depression before,
But had a breakthrough,
After imagining your face on a magazine too,
In love with another woman,
Until you touched the earth (angel),
Delightful beauty,
Delicately the one you deserve,
But since I sketch and draw,
I thought I'd create a masterpiece,
With your face and all,
We agree to disagree,
Rich silent type,
But did a little work when it was due,
I was the one that did my dirt,
Thinking How would I persuade you,
We maybe in heaven now,
But make a list of all our origin,
And for the time we lasted,
Searching to live out our lives again,
Little did we know,
When the ship went down,
It was you I longed for,
To keep my spirits bound,
Growing into an old coot,
Thinking of mild regret toward ends
But what you didnt realize that soon,
I will see you again.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
An old cowboy who was ruggedly cute
Was bedding down his best friend’s wife
Having the time of his life
Drowned in rot gut *****
Mistakenly thought his wrangler buddy didn’t give a hoot
Until the sudden moment his ex-best friend began to shoot
But he was in luck with uncommon fate
When St. Peter let him in the gate
Knowing he was just a crazy old cowboy coot
Drinking heavenly whisky straight out of his boot
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 6:30 AM UTC
Working on a large sheep prperty once
On days not much doing way out dig cactus
One day doing just this I caught a flash
Owner on his old horse up a hill for practice
Watching me the old coot he was that day
To see if I on my own was doing my work
The sun sent me a flash from his binoculars
The old guy was an untrusting kind of ****
Just below me a soil erosion twent feet deep
That ran for about a real good mile away
I rode down and right up it for a mile
And right up behind him fifty tards I say
Tied up my horse sat under a big old tree
Rolled myself a smoke and watched him
Looking all over away down there was he
Chances finding me down there were slim
He was getting so frustrated binoculars too
Where the hell did that bloke go he said
Looking all about for me that day was he
I just smiled rolled another smoke instead
Him standing in his old half worn saddle
Where the hell did that bloke I ask go
I'll be having a real good talk to him later
Can't trust anyone I said nows a good ya know
http://i197.photobucket.com/albums/aa290/tracymay27/CowboyCampFire.jpg
terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
Across the road
from the underground station
next to the Christian tabernacle
you sat with Helen
on the standing wall
of a bombed out house
she clutched her doll
Battered Betty
looking around her
I've never been
on this bomb site before
she said
the people who lived here
must have been really scared
if they heard the siren in time
they may have got out
but some didn't of course
you said
trying to imagine
what the houses looked like
before the bombing
how the gardens
may have been well kept
may have had vegetables
and flowers growing
in the small beds
at the back of the house
a lady my mum knew
got blown up
and all they found
was her hand
with her wedding ring
still there
Helen said
******** up her nose
making her thick lens glasses
move on her nose
my mum said
she and her stepfather
used to hide
under the large oak table
in the kitchen
if they got caught out
by the bombing
you said
and Mum said her stepfather's bottom
was sticking out
at one end of the table
Helen laughed
you liked it when she laughed
it made dimples in her cheeks
and her eyes lit up
behind her glasses
best not tell Mum
I've been on the bomb site
Helen said
she said they're dangerous places
they are
you said
but hell what would life be
without a bit of danger?
what does your dad say
when you tell him
you've been on the bomb sites?
she asked
rocking Battered Betty
in her arms
nothing much
except not to wear
my best clothes on there
is that all?
she said
yes pretty much
you said
what about your mum?
you looked at her
her hair tied in two pigtails
her eyes large
beyond the lens
she says be careful
not to climb
you said
but you do
Helen said
you did it just now
to get up here
yes I know that
and you know that
but my mum needn't
you said
banging the back
of your shoes
on the wall gently
don't you tell
your mum everything
you do?
she asked
I do
you frowned
I try not to worry her
you said
doesn't she asked
what you've done or been?
yes but I needn't
tell her everything
you said
she has enough worries
without me adding to them
I think it best
I imagine other places
or things done
to keep her
from worrying
Helen shook her head
you have a strange
sense of truth
she said
holding Betty tight
to her chest
her chin resting
on the doll's head
how about an ice cream
at Baldy's?
you said
Baldy's?
she said
where is Baldy's?
the grocer shop
before you get
to the railway bridge
down Rockingham Street
you said
the owner is as bald as a coot
she laughed
ok
she said
and so you both
climbed down
from the wall
and walked down
and along
to the subway
and on to the shop
to get ice creams
she smiling
with her battered doll
you with your cowboy
shooting dreams.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Two piggytails
school girl socks
remove all makeup
add a freckle or two
This is what rocks his boat
pretending he’s a randy old goat
Lollipop to ****
ringlets to twirl
coy innocent smile
shy head down look
I’m his pupil, he’s my master
wish he’d come faster
Shaved down there
bald as a coot
uniform, tie, slightly askew
caning offence, I kneel
My college bills are nearly paid
then I can end this sick charade
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:02 AM UTC
The older I get
The crazier I get.
I like the word crazy
Because I'm a crazy old coot.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
A dog in the street,
Such an amazing feet,
Perfume sellers and ‘Hombre’ boots,
Always cut your hair and you’ll be bald as a coot.
WOOF! WOOF! BARK! BARK!
Moor them in a ferry park,
Dogs are ruff, and cats are ****
Dogs say gruff, and cats make me sick.
Stepping off the pavement, and peeing on posts,
To them, humans may as well be ghosts.
Fluffy dogs and meowing cats,
Wag their tails and scratch like a bat.
Their cute looks never diminish,
That is the fact and this is the finish.
Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 2:16 AM UTC
Summer days are past and gone,
And colder days now hurry on.
The lily draws her tender bloom
deep into the cloudy gloom, and
soft mists risen in the night,
turn to frost at dawns first light.
In the margins of the pond
The ice holds fast the frozen frond,
and under hill the mole curls tight,
safe and warm throughout the night,
pink paws, pink nose, a velvet coat,
all safely hidden from the stoat!
The swans, clothed in their purest white
glide, like ghosts in black of night
as safely on the lake they sleep,
while the coot and moorhen peep
in their dark and sombre suits,
from the tangled willow roots.
The fox that cunning red marauder
creeps stealthily along the border,
as the weakling winter sun
Announces a new day begun.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
I'm a little ball of sadness
That gets happied up by you ray of light
You're a never-ending bubble of coot
That loves me and always finds my tail
I love my stick house you made
I'll pay you back in
Hunny pots and love
From my big fat heart
From the tips of my gloomy toes
To the tops of your little black rain cloud
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 12:21 AM UTC
Vallabh Savani is so kind and cute
Above all, ready to help any boot –
Low caste, low esteemed or kaput.
Love through his blood does overshoot
And sooths many Sankets who commute
Benevolence to all generations coot.
In dilemma and hassle, he is parachute;
Help for a friend; foe and faulty to execute.
Has contributed to campaign anti-pollute,
Sighted orphans and settled destitute,
Awarded teachers like me and persecute
Vast enmity against him which substitute
Allies as Hardik and myself in healthy lawsuit.
Never saw him angry or upset as he commute;
Insane behaviour is far as never did he salute
Someone, but bowed his head to transmute
Inner love and care to all old and his recruit.
Remain healthy and wealthy! This my tribute.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Into the folds of the dress and the mold.
Though he is old and he has no more sense.
You've never heard this, it hasn't been told,
Of the babbling coot: his all-seeing eye.
Drooling over his woodcarving he waits.
The boys find him, his eyes rolling circles.
Old man! Tell us. What's in this box of dates?
Another box, old mans says, just a box.
And within that box? A little boy grates.
Another box, the old man says, just a box.
The boys chatter with glee at what truth sates.
They run off, "Old man ain't crazy! Just old."
Talking to a black bird, the old man sat.
The boys find him: bird nodding agreement.
Old man! Across the sea! How old's old Pat?
A scratch of the chin. "Why, she's fifteen, boys."
The boys, perplexed, walk away; that was that.
"They'll bury him there," old man said. Bird squawks.
Rocking in chair, whistling his old, old tune.
The men find him looking young than ever.
Old man! Been years! Where's the pirate's treasure?
The men drunkenly wait for the magic.
Old man whispers in the ear of the eldest.
Eldest pulls out map; his eyes almost burst.
The men run off as if chasing the sun.
A shovel shakes off its last bead of dirt.
Tears, precious pearls of sorrow, ease burdens.
The men, swathed in finery, mourn for friend.
"Old man!" New eldest asks, "You knew didn't you?"
Old man titters, "I only saw, boys, see?"
New eldest grabs old man. Birds squawk in trees.
Black clouds ooze across the sky overhead.
Winds rattle the old man's house... death rattles.
The men pull new eldest away from there.
Old man drops to ground. He stands up to stare.
The spooked men run off back to their home town.
A black bird swoops onto old man's shoulder.
" 'Twas my box of dates they showed me that day.
Twas my great grandchild Pat who they spoke of.
And 'twas my gold they were all looking for.
My eye only sees what belongs to me!"
The old man sat down in his rocking chair.
In the moonlight, a glimmer of gold eyes,
spoke of a soulless pirate king's riches.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
A shimmering lake of my own making,
a flash of blue across the water,
twelve spotless geese conversing
in private tones, reflected.
Coot and moorhen feeding chicks,
This is my delight,
to look upon nature
in the glorious Sun
and smile, contented.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Sleep has been a sluggish pixie and the moon a constant Patheon
Of Twilight Sirens. I am lulled into molasses eyes and am never sane.
Only a ghost in my sheleton. A malingering cocoon
in the shape of a perpetual Snow White Crane.
I garden the grove of Midnights inner thy
and valiantly persist. I lay siege where I lay down my arms to suffer peace - as merely a mirage of luminous Tchotchkes and stolen kisses from Abyssal Lips.
Under wrong stars, I roam the Halls of UnTime. I go on my way where looming is sprinting into stagnations embrace
with all the vigor of Hermes. Floating in the hall is like surfing a dark gods wave. An undulating fog
of prodigious oblique. in haste.
I am a Time Machine that writes poetry
and may never finish my Tea.
Earl Grey.
With the Soul of a
Frozen Agog.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC
Let's dance!!
Let's put on our leopard skin pants.
Let's throw our hands in the air
and shake it like there is no tomorrow.
Let's dance!!
Who cares if others stare?
Let's dance!!
Come on you old Coot,
toss aside that walker.
Let's dance!!
Lean on me.
Cheek to cheek.
Chest to chest.
Thigh to thigh.
No need to speak.
Let your feet do all the talking,
and your hands...
Oooo-la-la!!
Let's dance!!
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
To Save Strays Deserve Lagniappe
Ruff lee, e'er since
aye waz za lil whippersnapper
watt wit dis awful temper, yet
obedient to a pooch loving Aleut
til present moment, Asian ole mangy coot
this hot day (woof faux pas
dipping into animal shelter
donated water bowl)
filled to the brim with smoothie fruit
flavored slaking, moistening, cooling,
sans lallygagging tongue
doth wipe phlegmy ooze away,
where nearby a kazoo
playing labradoodle
accompanies mum
muttering prettifying self,
via quasi preening snout
when squeezed
automatically issues
***** tonk sound imitating hoot,
where passerine twittering
fly night passersby
toss bone fied token loot
and a Norwegian
bachelor farmer named Knute
Rockne took immediate
liking to yours truly,
who when scratched
itchy fur patches remained mute
imparting unconditional love
to petting man's best friend
hoof right then and there
Isaiah felt as top underdog
momentarily distracted
Fermi n Rico as petsmart necessary fix
reduced to that as newshound ******
oft times in desperation
shine shoes ala boot lix
usually rewarded with bona fide prolix
about such a docile mix
breed to old for chase sticks
to learn super champing cheap tricks.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Tempers edge the need
for your anvil head to break.
The way back from work saw
Lowry people scrape the pavement.
Dog-leg drags of shuffle, of make-up slide,
mixing flea-skin sweat with pollen rub
into a tincture of stench.
This is image that I do not want
I have
half a mind to **** but I
cannot be bothered, the other ,a
a monologue of delirious ramblings
some" French kings versus
squadron mottos" thing...
and , in truth, I am not sure what
it's going on about.
I am indoors, windows open, curtains closed
naked from the waist down, feeding the freedom
of sprawl- but this is mistake of gargantuan order
a cosmic, foolish, schoolboy- error of judgement.
The sofa is leather.
My scar tangled manners are reports of my standing
an amateur tanners spewed stew of expletives.
In a half-arsed way it seems
I am to remain
part of the furniture
I search for shorts.. long shorts, short longs, whatever,
my legs and **** seek the solace of cloth.
On the canal a coot needs oiling
what feels like 20 minutes of incessant jar is
tapping with my rationale
Testing my love for all things feathered.
Something needs to give.
I am a Gobi taste of sandal straps and
in dire need of irrigation/ rehydration
I have waited way too long for liquid...
Don't get me wrong, this isn't some test
of deprivation- this is heat swung laziness
that is all it is..nothing more
nothing less..
And so..
We will get it tonight
You cannot pull isobars this far apart to
not have them break..
And that ogrish flat-top is thugging
the harbour side rents..
Ah yes...
"Après moi le deluge"
Seems to make sense, now
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
*POEM 80
(Cover Me)
“...this whole world’s out there
just trying to score
I’ve seen enough
don’t wanna see any more.
I’m looking for a lover
who will come on in and cover me..”
Bruce Springsteen, “Cover Me”, from ‘Born In The USA’
~~~~
No matter which way I lay,
half my bed mocks me
with loneliness,
with the chill of emptiness
and “what the hell is the matter
with you,
you old coot”.
Yet, not so old
that I forgot
the warmth of a feminine sigh,
or the scent of her skin
as she drapes her leg
over my thigh
and nestles closer to me.
“Cover me”...
...with your wildly spiced
vanilla sunshine
and deliciously tempting,
ruby lipped serenade
as you touch your lips to mine.
“Come on in and cover me”;
where there is no rain
or snow,
only your springtime breath
traveling over me;
only my summer kisses
wandering all over your
intoxicating contours,
through shapely valleys
and fields,
scaling and nipping
hardened mountain tips,
while enticing your arched back welcoming
and staring into
your desirous eyes.
~~~~
Yes, imagination twists inside
calling out from my empty bed,
cover me - covering you
with currents of naked skin
swimming in timeless exotic seas,
counting our hearts’ rhythm
of should be’s
but are not.
~~~~
So, yes,
still looking for a love to
come in and cover me.
Aztec Warrior 10.27.15*
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
aye savor the faire genetic blueprint
extant unique to each of us
with this quite alimentary aire
including (that almighty,
bottom, cushiony, dimpled,
excretory functioning Gluteus Maximus
i.e. the ***** when bare
with subtle difference sans,
both halves at first blush,
but tucks upon closer scrutiny
obvious inexactness crystal clear
as a bell jar, asper each body electric,
whence deserved of en dear
ments despite however much junk in the trunk
behind the private
no trespassing (non verbalized)
signs posted everywhere
off limits only to a select few like this bard
attired as if from the Renaissance Faire
whose unconditional acceptance
unlike the majority hoo gawk and glare
if bipedal hominid dealt
chromosomal traits say with excessive hair
which mane of tangled strands,
could be problematic and interfere
with coaxing, finagling,
or inducing friendship with an initial jeer
from him or her averse
toward such imperfection to boot
huff lawed physical human specimen
such as this ole coot
(who haint really that old),
can upon command execute
a feigned display
and appealing as fresh field picked fruit
at this stage of ma life
donut give a rats *** nor an owlish hoot
what other may decry about me,
cuz self acceptance doth agree
buzzing with greater confidence, esteem,
and general weaknesses such
as lack of physiognomy incongruent cee,
which asymmetry of this primate feel free
er than his pre/post pubescent
corporeal essence he
near put himself in the hand
of that grim reaper, a key
poor of lifeless beings,
and well nigh got hold da mee
when in the throes up
(vis a vis not bulimia) on Swiss side prithee
and as a solitary mwm gives no re
guard no matter others may find fault
in the stars at my lack of sim mutt tree
gnome hatter judgements made
I accept mice elf warts and all – yippee!
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
The more I learn, the more
I realize how little I know…
which insightful, gutsy,
entrancing, catchy apothegm
attributed to Socrates by way of Plato
subsequently self ranking myself
amidst Phylum Chordata with the Dodo bird
Class Aves (namely
said extinct flightless winged creature
with a mass of 29 – 51 pounds Oh!)
once endemic to the island of Mauritius,
east of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean,
none would be espied,
no matter how thorough
going across aquatic spreadsheet,
one might row
eventually coordinating
dropping vertical column in toto
arriving back to original
mentally ponderous premise
gamboling feint enroute to see
Old Man Wizard Of Oz
meets Crow Medicine Show
pitching thy quasi recursive query - bro
ching concurrence with another maxim to boot
“ignorance iz bliss”, which lack o'learn'n
doss appeal to this old coot,
yet such pithy accordance came
to this smart *** to late,
a mister wordsmith
with a palm pilot maximum glute
clamors (at risk of life and limb) to hoot
and holler when new kernel
of knowledge gleaned finds me mute
as if raw bit of savored information akin
to unearthing a rare gem,
or rare species of newt
temporarily allaying fervent quest to root
thru hefty tomes of great literature,
and tracts that suit
many other subjects,
less to be arrogant and toot
my own horn, but more so...
to satisfy an increasingly
insatiable hunger grow
wing nsync with unquenchable
thirsty ambition less for dough
(cuz bing po'
with treasure trove of voluminous
expansive bookish notions doth shaw
surpass becoming suddenly wealthy tin *** hustlers
with un hewn fifty nine shades of gray straw
this haint no cowardly lion seeking Androcles
to extract thorn from hum my faux paws.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
Slam some clam
Catch some ******
Pound some mound
Traverse the meat purse
Heave the wizard sleeve
Slip into some snipper
Push on the bush
Dine on the wavy line
Stab at the grabber
Lick the prickle
Hit the slit
Slap the trap
Splash into the ****
Embellish the crevice
Wrench the trench
Budge the drudge
Sink it in the pink
Swish some fish
Stir some fur
Plunk some dunk
Root the coot'
Revel in the bevels
Loosen the pin-cushion
Feel up the lip cup
Drop on the crop
Press the crest
Rout the pout
Rub the slick muffin
Ride the great divide
Stick it in the bald biscuit
Brave the love cave
Rough up the bunny tuft
Power the flower
Sock the wallet
Ruffle the pink truffle
Rock the tackle box
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC