"dung" poems
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.
and she was out again and whe he came home,and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
and
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the roominghouse wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.
that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.
and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his *****
and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red
GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now wether she lft or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine
32.1k
Dung trampled upon
Though soft, boneless and painless
Cripples a good leg
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Yes,
I got bars,
it's not about fancy cars or Lil Wayne rapping about Mars.
So far I am marred and scarred by false charm,
burned and charred that we are stuck in this dung tar.
It's about understanding we are stuck in the under standings so understand this,
can bring raze as I raise and rise to clear out these rinse and repeat Rhymes.
I don't care about the money or women.
Will your Rap make a difference.
Only a few got the conscious to talk about love.
The rest is a pile of **** I put to the side and shove.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
I beg inside my soul to have you.
I don't love you.
I want to feel passion, desire, and the warmth of another body pressing against me
I could grab any man I wanted, but I want you.
I see your brown hair
let me run my fingers through, just once
Your eyes
soft earth
Your lips
pink lilacs
And all I want is your body
Which is very saddening.
To only want to use someone, then toss them aside like trash
How can you?
And still fall asleep at night without thinking about a face wet with tears
your fault
I simply want to do to you
What you have done
To All the women before me,
The same song as a trickery
I want you to fall in love with me
an instrument meets the music
I want you to hold me close and kiss me, as you share your fears and truths.
a melody plays softly
I want you to believe in love because of me
Think of me, breathe me, and miss me when we are not together
accelerato tempo
Until one day you meet me in a corner booth at our favorite restaurant, and I rip your heart to shreds
*Look, I never loved you. I lied.
I used you to get what I want.
You are a pathetic, self-serving dung heap that only thinks about himself. You wooed me, I pretended to like you, so I could dig under your thick facade of masculinity, and discover your sensitive side. I know what you are--man whore--and I enjoyed using you. You can lie to everyone, every woman from this point on, but ten years from now, when you are married to wife number four and you are waiting for her to come home and she never does, I want you to crawl into the bed you made and bawl like the whining, sniveling baby you truly become at night when no one else is around you. I hope 'lonely' presses you down so hard it hurts to breathe. And maybe then you might turn into a different man or at least your miniscule brain will have an inkling of true heartbreak. Doubtful though--I win. You lose*
Then I get up and walk away from you, ignoring any pleas and ****** slurs.
Caesura
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Beat the Congo
Blow the horn
Wave your hand
Out of many one people
What a vibration
In a this little island
Even though we can’t live as one
But when a party time
We unite
Nuh matter the culture (it doesn’t)
We a full joy we self
You have Rasta talking
Christians praying
Bay song playing (in the context Bay means a lot)
Smiles on everybody faces
Out many one people
So come the Chinese, British, Syrians, Americans, Indians
Every Caribbean and rest of the world
Come to Jamaica
And feel alright
Listen some Bob
Don’t carry no jewelry
Because you will get rob
But come and eat
Have a feast
Enjoy we beach
Entertainment
Energy a shot
Drink a cold beer
Relax under the coconut tree
Feel free
We have **** chicken
Curry goat
Festival, rice, Bammy
Fry and steam fish
Come enjoy we cultural dish
Food galore
Go back a your country
Tell every boy and girl
Say Jamaica nice
We know say crime and violence
Corruption
A plague
But don’t let that stop you
Cause everybody welcome
Nuh matter taste (It doesn’t)
Come in a haste
Cause we have a celebration
Jam dung vibration
Me a tell the politician
Say me a send out a special invitation
But first we yard need renovation
Build up Jamaica
And education
Cause we live in a paradise
Black, green and gold
We proud and bold
As we motto say
Out of many one people.
CHRISTENA ANTONIA VALAIRE WILLIAMS ©2012
JAMAICA
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
Speak,
as if you know what you are saying.
Let it roll off the tongue,
*********** like a Dung-beetle's ****
and let me drink it up like a lapdog.
It tastes like heaven from where I sit,
not by comparison,
but lack of.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]
Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !
Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !
I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !
Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?
Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !
Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.
Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?
Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?
See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !
Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.
This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.
6k
…*in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates*.
Charles Darwin, 1871
The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.
Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.
It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.
The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).
Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.
The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
the Himalayas rise
there is snow on the peaks
I watch it from my bed
I gaze and gaze at it
in the morning
as a little village girl goes by
sniffling with cold
I too am cold
it is chilly here in Tosh in May
but a young Israeli boy
took off his shirt
and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing
down was the deep green valley
all of us watched in admiration
the next day I went down to the waterfall
which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air
there are donkeys and a path
and pretty houses on the other side of the valley
and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing
in the cafes and the guesthouses
it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming
and sit around smoking talking
I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back
feel the chill despite a thick sweater
despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt
I roll my joints and smoke them alone
sometimes smoke them with others
I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses
I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun
and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk
who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight
with his young Spanish friend
I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur
who’ve come here on a Bullet
Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on
to the four engineering interns from Delhi
and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey
for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears
unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover
found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair
she left behind last night because it was too dark
come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them
what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village
down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:13 PM UTC
I'm trying so hard
I don't know what to do
My heart is aching
Thinking of you
A small square of paper
Sits on my tongue
With razor sharp edges
and tasting of dung
It takes me to spaces
Deep in my mind
Where there's too many places
and not enough time
I've been drowned in guilt
and I'm suspended in shame
Repeatedly killed
like in a video game
Written upon
the sharp paper square
are words for destruction
and guilt and despair
It's a trip like no other
you won't even feel high
you'll feel like a bother
and just want to cry
'...You're wrong, you're wrong,
you're wrong, you're wrong
How could you do this
How could you
do this to me...'
I'm floating in place with
no lover to face
trembling, trembling
trembling heart space
I'm spinning in circles
looking for miracles
and it's proving to be
horribly difficult
Trying to fly
with no wings to spread
I crumble and cry
a song for what's dead
the sound of alarms
ring in my head
Take me
cradle me in your arms
Drifting in place
dead in deep space
You left me here with
tears on my face
Crystalline droplets
scintillating pearls
spinning in circles,
spirals, and swirls
Why did you think
to leave me alone
at the cold ugly brink
a frost to the bone
the cold hard shoulder
feels far colder
than a lifeless boulder
I'm cold, I'm
cold
I speak with my music
and these notes are my words
My harp is my voice
and these strings are the cords
I try hard to play
But you've cut them all off
My harp is left bare
naked, unstrung
I'll move all the pedals
But unto what end?
I can't speak my heart
I can no longer pretend
It's time to stand up
and take a great bow
Walk off the stage
The end is
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
waste matter discharged from the mother's bowels; feces,
excreta, stools, droppings; waste matter,
ordure, dung; **** poo, dirt, turds, ****
"cleaning up ferret excrement":
mid 16th century: from French excrément
or Latin excrementum, from excernere ‘to sift out’ feces;
act of defecating;
a contemptible or worthless person;
something worthless; garbage; nonsense;
"this book is **** unpleasant experiences
or treatment; "I went through a lot of **** last year"
things or stuff, especially personal belongings;
"he left all his **** in my apartment"
events or circumstances;
_"some crazy **** went down last night"_
any psychoactive drug, especially marijuana [the good ****
good **** verb: **** 3rd person present: *****
past tense: ******* past participle: *******
past tense: **** past participle: **** past tense: shat;
past participle: shat; gerund or present participle: ********
expel feces from the body,
soiling one's clothes as a result;
expelling feces accidentally; very frightened.
tease or try to deceive someone or thing.
"I **** you not" exclamation
exclamation: ****
[exclamation of disgust, anger, or annoyance]
Old English scitte ‘diarrhea,’ of Germanic origin;
related to Dutch schijten, German scheissen [verb];
_The term was originally neutral and used without ****** connotation_;
*********** from Greek κόπρος,
kópros—excrement & φιλία, philía—
liking, fondness, also called scatophilia
or **** [Greek: σκατά, skatá-feces],
is the paraphilia involving
****** arousal & pleasure
from specific feces;
meanly, his mother said, _u can drink my ***
but don't eat my **** then she ****
& *** & the boy drank but when
he put the warm **** to his mouth,
she slapped it out of his hand &
yelled, I told u not to eat my ****
& the boy began to cry & feeling
bad his mother turned to let him lick
the bowl & rim the moist wet hole between
her pudgy cheeks & then gave him more
of her tangy *** to drink like lemonade
& chocolate chips, sometimes it was
more like sweet sherbet; but she never
hit him again & he's been eating her ****
ever since; now, his wife lets him drink
her *** & he eats from the baby's *****
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring
When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot
To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, “Why not?”
In casting about for a corner
Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, “Just it.”
And he said, “That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm,
And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm.”
It was not enough of a garden,
Her father said, to plough;
So she had to work it all by hand,
She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road;
But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load.
And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed.
She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but ****
A hill each of potatoes,
Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees
And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider apple tree
In bearing there to-day is hers,
Or at least may be.
Her crop was a miscellany
When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything,
Now when she sees in the village
How village things go,
Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, “I know!
It’s as when I was a farmer——”
Oh, never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale
To the same person twice.
3.5k
Quacking ducks
Dung throwers
Degenerate, opinionate
No plea for serenity
No chance for reverence
Only less politeness
Survival of the fittest
Hegemony of the crudest
Twitter for the *****
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
I've had my fill of llamas
And of all the woes they bring
For though they stop by frequently
They never say a thing
I find it rather ignorant
That a humpless dromedary
Should force on me its company
But not its commentary
I'm getting sick of llamas
My nights are fraught with dread
They wait until I'm fast asleep
Then bounce around the bed
My slippers smell of llama dung
The carpet's had its day
My house is getting crowded
There's a new one every day
I just can't move for llamas
They're piling up in drifts
Relentless in their appetite
I'm feeding them in shifts
I have to clamber over them
To get to anywhere
Would anyone like a llama?
I would simply love to share
I really can't stand llamas
The ******** just don't quit
And if they don't get their pop-tarts
They've a tendency to spit
They multiply quite rapidly
Devoid of conversation
I think I'll have to leave them
And resume my medication
**
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
Even the beetles
know
how to roll dung
uphill
to make a living.
I can't believe
those lazy mofos
hanging out
to collect our spoils,
with us toiling daily,
spilling more dough,
into the coffers
for easy handouts.
They're lazier
than shit-beetles.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I live in Moshi,Tanzania,
As a child,one day I got lost,
A maasai took me to his home.
He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro,
His home was a kraal (hut)
made of stone,sticks and cow dung.
I cried for my parents,
So he fed me milk and blood from a cow,
He pierced a hole in the cow's neck,
He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood,
It was warm but I vomited,
Gradually, I got used to it.
The maasai's way of life is communilism,
Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle.
Theirs is an age set system for men,
The children look after the herd,
I joined them having fun,
No school, no lessons or homework.
Then,there were the Morans,the youths,
They wore black **** cloths,
Carried a spear in one hand,
Their faces were painted with white ochre.
They protected the clan and the cattle,
From predators and other tribes.
They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta.
After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare
The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich.
The senior morans could marry and settle down,
The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl.
The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors,
My maasai was a laigwenani,
Like all maasais, he was tall and lean,
He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes,
A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder,
He always held a long bladed stabbing spear,
His long hair was tightly braided,
He had ochre painted on his body,
He had no children and treated me like his son,
He would take me to teach the morans about warfare.
But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon.
The Laibons were the chief religious leaders,
They settled disputes,
They decided when and on whom to attack.
Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting,
A game warden found me.
He alerted the police and I was taken home safely.
But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
Impregnate your old crock squirtin'
Papier—mâché blackball on the *****
Oglin' for upshot
And whatever frigs our orifice
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator
I like dung and tinsel
Shandy ****** fuss
Breedin' with the puke
And the Weltanschauung that I'm in statu pupillari
Yeah Ducky **** **** it bud
Milk the meatiness in a snog stranglehold
****** all of your bazookas at once
And unclench into ventilator
Like a punctilious Zeitgeist's nincompoop
We were born, born to be unstatesmanlike
We can spirt so penetrating
I never wanna croak
Born to be unstatesmanlike
Born to be unstatesmanlike
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
Have you ever visited a public *********
When you were really bursting for a dung
And sadly found the only cubicle
Was vile and ill-prepared to meet your needs,
Its stench beyond your wildest nightmare dread?
And yet you bravely held your breath and looking
Down into the cracked, caked enamel bowl
Beheld a horrid, putrid panful there,
The likes of which you never dreamed you'd find
And live to tell the ******* tale to mortal man.
About a hundred people's lurking turds
All heaped and piled up to the very brim,
Some soft and runny, squashed down by the weight
Of countless others, some smudged with blood
Lying there like half-cooked hamburgers.
And there was barely ******* space in the pan
For you to add a steaming trio of your own
To the rancid, obscene horrors lurking there
As you crouched, puking, with your ******* round your ankles
Terrified in case they fell onto the piss-swamped floor.
And you noticed with your reeling senses
That there wasn't any ****** paper either,
Nor had there been for many a long day
Judging from the walls' awesome sorry state
All covered in ****** brown elevens. (SEE NOTE BELOW)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.
To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.
Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly
of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.
You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.
Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.
But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.
To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.
That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.
He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.
He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.
For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.
And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.
But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.
And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
"Why can't you say what you mean straight out in prose?"
Well, say it yourself: then say "It's that, but more,
Or less perhaps, or not that way, or not
That after all." The meaning of a song
Might be an undernote; this tree might mean
That leaf as much as trunk, branch, other leaves.
And does one know till one begins? And let's
Look over hedges far as eyesight lets us,
Since road's not, surely, road, but road and hedge
And feet and sky and smell of hawthorn, horse-dung.
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