"flubber" poems
I heard the news on Facebook
I paid my respects on Twitter
you played so many great characters
to many to list them all
but my favorites were
Bicentennial Man
What Dreams May Come
Flubber
Jumanji
Mrs. Doubtfire
Hook
Mork & Mindy
You were truly amazing
one of the greats
the world will not be the same with out you
R.I.P Mr Robin Williams
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:29 AM UTC
Who do you think you are?
Digging through the rubble of history
Rearranging it to make YOU look like the innocent one
Who do you think you are?
Stringing together venomous lies
Twisting the truth to spearhead your crusade of destruction
Who do you think you are?
Playing the innocent, wronged victim
When we all know you’re the malicious instigator
Who do you think you are?
Hiding behind a honey mask
When we all know it is not sweet, but sickly
What gave you the right?
To walk into my life
To unravel the our hearts
Mould your self into it
And then pick way at the joints
With your malevolent thoughts
And walk away acting like the martyr
Acting like the innocent victim
And then worm your way back into there
Because their hearts were like Flubber
Willing malleably for your Kruger fingers
Ready to rip us all to shreds
Just who the hell do you think you are?
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Flubber inside
filling out the cracks
you and that
insipid hat.
Wolly sweater
boatload of pins
find out when
our love life begins.
It's quite awkward
when I get so nervous
like hot liquid
boiling in a pan.
It's really kind of funny 'cause
I can't figure you out,
man.
Grist and marrow
you're a stringy
kind of fellow.
And every time I see
your stupid smily face
I get this rubber
in my tummy
a fit I cannot place.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
The little boy with the shining eyes
Was skipping along the street,
They said that he was autistic, that
He never would learn to speak,
He laughed and played in the open air
And he chattered away inside,
But he couldn’t utter a single word
That anyone recognised.
His mind was cluttered with happy thoughts
Of colours and sounds and things,
He couldn’t make sense of the what-they-were
Or anyone’s utterings,
He thought they spoke in a special tongue
That nobody understood,
They kept on saying the same old thing,
‘Now Oliver, you be good!’
He thought that ‘Ubble ee yuli dood,’
Was the sound of a creaking chair,
Or maybe the voice of a ‘Wotsigot’
When his mother was tearing her hair,
His father would just say ‘Geepimin’
When he wanted to go out late,
And she’d say, ‘Wotdid yalass slayv dyeov?’
Locking the garden gate.
He’d learned to scale the iron fence
That was built to keep him in,
And he took his chattering Umblevorks
That were gambolling within,
He filled the street with his Landyplatts
Where they lay on every lawn,
Waiting to play with the neighbour’s cats
That he knew as Gratzendorn.
But down the road was a nasty man
With a name like Hubbrygast,
Who would grab the lad by the scruff of the neck
And drag him home at last,
‘Keep your idiot son at home,
Away from my place, at least,
If I catch him out on the road again
I’ll be calling the local police.’
The day was Doodly Wangle with
The Flubber up in the Guy,
When Hubbrygast saw a Landyplatt
From the corner of his eye,
The boy was singing a Wollygong
To a two-tone Grindlepick,
When Hubbrygast poked the Landyplatt
With the sharp point of a stick.
The Landyplatt gave a gorble that
Had enraged the Umblevorks,
And Hubbrygast was surrounded by
His own sharp garden forks,
They poked and prodded and brought him down
‘Til the nasty man had bled,
While a bright red volluping Corple
With a ***** took off his head.
The people hide in their houses when
The boy comes out to play,
And nobody tries to speak to him,
They wouldn’t know what to say,
They weave their way through the Landyplatts
That have taken over the street,
And try to avoid the Umblevorks
That chatter, under their feet.
David Lewis Paget
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Crotchety old men reading year-old,
Newspapers and drinking year-old milk,
Suddenly assailed me for some frothy beer;
Jeering I jest that they don't look their best,
Wearing polka dot vests with feathered *******
(Get those naughty thoughts out your noggins)
Speaking of noggin, I was jogging
With a porch light up Johnson's Hill,
And a dog dug a jig from a neon sign,
That had velvet written on it,
From a German gnome,
Born from a dwarf!
What a lucky find!
I'll index it next to the index finger,
But first I'll clean it with Windex.
Sleep? Sle3p? Sl33p?
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
Flibber flabber
Jibber Jabber
I see the
Flubber shudder,
Only a periphery.
From my distance
And my perspective
Matters of such unimportance
Sunken, rotting
At the bottom of the sea
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Mother my mother, the rain to my cover.
Mother my mother, my boat to my rudder.
Mother my mother, bright like the colour.
Mother my mother, your death make me shudder.
Mother my mother, not from the gutter.
Mother my mother, flexi like flubber.
Mother my mother, oh stretch like the rubber.
Mother my mother, oh change like the summer.
Mother my mother, no please don’t suffer.
Mother my mother, no please no bother.
Mother my mother, she's not my lover.
Mother my mother, but boy do I lov er.
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 2:15 PM UTC