"gawk" poems
Leaves, sticks, and seeds make up this six foot stalk.
Oh, how she blooms before the flashing lights!
Leaving men and women with a stunned gawk.
Oh, you cause the seeds of your kind at night,
to dream of heights they won't reach; how sadly
try the delusional. But in all kin,
is imprinted least a scar on their psyches.
Sacrificial offer in porcelain
is ritually performed by some daily.
If not for fame, glory, or money, then
to mirror fashion people's ideal beauty.
A cyclic mental disease that won't end.
Shhh.. Here she comes! The first, but not the least.
An appetizer for the famine feast!
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
The vicar's knickers look so fine
As they hang upon the line.
Flapping wildly in the breeze,
They're as sassy as you please.
They used to be a shade of grey,
But on the line, in the light of day,
They sparkle white as they hang about.
Even Mr. Clean would scream and shout.
People in the street stop and stare
As they admire the vicar's underwear.
Hanging there for all to see,
They seem to cry, "Look at me!"
The gathering crowd gives a sigh
When the vicar's knickers seem to fly
As they dance and twist upon the line,
Looking white and clean, and oh so fine.
Inside the house the vicar pleads,
"Dear wife, some underwear I need.
Without my knickers I cannot say
My sermon in the church today."
The vicar's wife has had enough
Of viewing her husband in the buff,
As he searches for another pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
"I know where to find a pair!
They're on the line, those underwear,"
Says the vicar's wife with a grin.
"I'll just go out and fetch them in."
The poor man waits and says a prayer
And hopes she finds those underwear.
He really wants to finish dressing
And go to church and say the blessing.
She snatches them from off the line
Where they've hung and looked so fine.
The crowd watches her take them down,
Those knickers, the whitest in all the town.
They'll have to come another day
To gawk and watch those knickers play.
The vicar needs that elusive pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
The vicar's just as pleased as punch
Because he had a sneaking hunch
He'd never see that last clean pair,
And he'd have nothing else to wear.
Now he's dressed and ready for the day,
And he can go to church and kneel and pray
Because he's wearing a lovely pair
Of sparkling, clean, white underwear.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
I have a vision of my future
one I’m not sure could ever come true
A vision where the world won’t judge
the love I share with you
A vision of my future
where I could have the guts
To hold your hand in public
Hold each other on the bus
I wish that I could find a place
where I will not be shamed
For gazing in your pretty eyes
that lack in any pain
I wish we could get married
without hearing a complaint
And no one thought twice of our lives and we were normal, plain
But as we walk the sidewalk
most people stare and gawk
As though we are a freak show
or evil they must stop
I only want to love you
Without living in fear
I wish that I could say “I do”
and keep my lovers near
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 10:55 AM UTC
I often find my heart lies with the lads
And I find I related more than my body should
And other days I find I align with what my mother would be proud of
The confusion sickens me
I feel like a freak
A shapeshifter in a circus
One who crowds gather to gawk at
It feels like they stare and mock my absurdity
It rips me apart to feel so different
And I have been told that it is for attention
But please know that no one would wish this confusion on themselves only to be looked at with disdain
I am me and that is simple and plain
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Welcome to our city,
The happiest place on earth!
We’re conditioned to be happy folks,
Starting right from birth.
In the mornings are our daily shots,
To keep our senses dull.
Then we walk to morning class,
Grins plastered to our skulls.
They seat us by a great big screen
With images and sound.
They show us what will happen
If we ever slip a frown.
We gawk at the “Correction Site”
You’ll see as you drive in.
It’s filled with rotting corpses
With no choice BUT to grin!
So we are always happy!
Happy as can be!
There is no crime, or sin, or tears,
Only endless glee!
Can’t you see me smiling?
Don’t you want this too?
Come join our happy city!
Yes, the city, she wants you….
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
It was, as the New York Times all but sniffed
(Even then, a haughty mix of bluenose and black ink)
Further proof the poor, misguided Upstate rubes
Were no more than ample fodder
For any tinhorn, two-bit confidence man to take for a ride.
Fair enough—it was, to the careful eye and unheated psyche
Clear as the azure blue sky that,
Despite the best efforts of acid wash and a year underground,
So obviously a statue as to be absolutely laughable,
And yet the vox populi came in waves,
Not only one-gallus farmers from the fields nearby,
But from the great cities near and far
(Chicago, Philadelphia, and, yes, even New York itself
To throw Hannum a quarter to view his gargantuan grotesquery
Just as described in Genesis itself, he noted solemnly
So many, indeed, that Barnum himself was divinely inspired
Not only to purloin the giant, but its prior owner’s epigram
As to the frequency of the manufacture
Of his too-credible customer base.
While there was (briefly, at least) some mystery surrounding
The origins of the brobdingnagian mass of stone,
It remained (to some, anyway) equally unfathomable
Why scores of folks would careen in unsteady coaches
The full length of the Catskill Turnpike,
With its questionable lodging and uneven roadworthiness,
Or patiently suffer the mosquito-laden flatboats of Clinton’s Ditch
All to spend the cash equivalent of two trips to the county fair
To see a perfectly good hootchie-kootchie show
Simply to gawk at an unevenly carved rock of questionable authenticity,
But that explained quite simply,
As the public always gets what the public wants.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
I was a shape in my cosy little shell,
I stayed...
I nestled.
My cookie-cutter thoughts would
occasionally rebel...
And stray to the windows.
But still they were imprisoned by the
walls that surrounded.
I would steal bashful peeks
out a window.
I'd let my senses take unrestricted flights,
as I stared into the grandeur of the carnival
that seemed to have sprouted overnight...
Just beyond the confines of my home.
"What a marvellous circus!" I'd think...
I'd gawk with child-like adoration
and never blink.
The universe lay sprawled
in a celebration of systematic chaos.
It stretched far into the horizon...
A delight to the senses,
perceived through such young eyes.
The world had told me stories.
They were like fireworks
that speared up to the sky.
I wanted to be a part of the jubilee...
I longed for the validation of my existence.
I wished to claim the gift of life bestowed upon me.
I'd resent being held hostage by my indoctrinated ignorance.
I was a shape.
I knew I was a square.
I knew I had a home...
But not within those four walls.
Simply because...
My heart wasn't there.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 8:32 AM UTC
The experience of a black woman is one that can not be imitated
Although it is not always enough or even always reciprocated
Her heart is full of love, almost bursting out of her chest
And even when it gets tough, the black woman always tries her best
She longs for an equal who shares her level of intellect
Someone to listen to all her problems and attempt to put them in retrospect
The black woman often fears sharing any of her thoughts
For fear of being labeled the angry black woman, which she’s heard lots
Some black men refuse to date a black woman because of her attitude
But thank you to those strong black men that show them so much gratitude
Sometimes the black woman confidently wears her hair natural
The time she takes to detangle each curl is truly admirable
Other times she doubts her beauty as she is surrounded by Eurocentric guidelines
Men gawk at the beauty of those with straight long hair as she stands on the sidelines
Sometimes the black woman adores all of her god given features
But when she sees the women men covet she feels like an ugly creature
The black woman comes in all different sizes, shapes, and color
And instead of black women competing with one another
They must stand together and see the beauty in being black
So that they can truly understand that beauty is not something that they lack
My sisters, all of my black sisters, thank you for making me feel so human
Because no one understands the experience of black woman like a black woman.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
She knows she’s in
the sepia photograph
but doesn’t remember why
or who the others are
or why she dressed
as she did back then
or why there was a dog there
at the front
she keeps the photograph
tucked between
the pages
of the black Bible
some clergy gave her
and a dark secret
she was forbidden to tell
and sometimes
that short woman
with the Mongolian features
steals it to gawk at
then she has to go get it back
sometimes violently
which brings the nurses running
with their rough hands
and strait jackets
or that skinny woman
who always stares
takes hold of it
and stares at it
pointing to the various faces
of the males and females
and at the dog
and smiles and wets herself
and then laughs loudly
which causes
the other inmates
to bellow or laugh
or cry or scream
bringing the nurses trotting
with their what’s going on?
or what’s all this then?
she holds the photograph
to her ***** when she can
or tries to remember
who they all are
staring back at her
including herself
and when the quacks
question her
about the photo
as to who is who
or why she has kept it
she doesn’t have a clue
and one said
she ought not to have it
as it disturbed her
but a nice nurse
(and there were some) said
o no doctor she needs that
there will be hell to pay
if she doesn’t have it
tucked between the pages
of the Good Book
she kisses herself some days
talks to one or two
of the others there
but who they were
or to whom she speaks
she doesn’t know
and on cold wintery days
she looks toward the sun
for a message
or a warming glow.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
You're not a necessity,
You’re an accessory.
Stop trying to own me, talk at, and stand next to me.
Stop playing the role of the leader- you’re less than me.
I am the boss here you have nothing to offer- see?
I am stronger, smarter, brighter, bolder-
and all you have to say is what?
“If I can’t have her I’ll hurt her.”
You think because you’re man and I’m women I’m yours,
but when it comes to offers I haven’t see anything worse.
You call at me,
Stare at me,
Swear at me,
Slimy and gross like a leach.
You taunt me and smirk at me as if I’m in your reach.
So I’ve talked to you once,
We’ve made eye contact- your point?
You’re a cog in a machine line,
a small piece,
an ordinary joint.
You’re unoriginal with your words,
even less with your actions.
I’m beautiful and talented,
So when it comes to you there’s no attraction.
You have nothing to offer me,
let me be-stop accosting me.
You’re taking up my time and it’s costing me.
Because unlike you I’m not worthless,
I’ve got ambition and drive.
I’ve got brains-not just an ***
You’re not the reason I’m alive.
You’re nothing,
You’re worthless.
And if I wanted you, you’d know.
I’ve been trying to tell you repeatedly just where you can go.
Your offers?
Not catchy,
not tempting,
I don’t want anything less.
So sad to know when it comes to relationships-
this is as close as you ever get.
You’re ****
You’re trash.
You confuse me when you talk.
Since when does a women sleep with someone when they gawk, or when they stalk?
You’re a coward,
You’re a loser,
Your creation was a glitch.
And though yes, I am rejecting you,
No, boy-you are the little *****
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
What does figure skating feel like?
Many different things.
You could be flying.
Or swimming.
Spinning.
Twisting.
Or nearly dying.
It's scary.
Incredible.
Painful.
Silly.
Unbelievable.
People watch you and gawk.
The pressure is high.
But so is the reward.
It requires tolerance of pain.
Determination.
Mental strength.
A lack of sanity.
And a bizarre sense of humor.
You've got to be serious.
But know when to laugh.
You've got to be strong.
And powerful.
But light.
And soft.
You've got to jump high.
But spin low
You've got to be fearless.
But know how to be nervous.
Fall.
And still get up.
Get hurt.
But never cry.
Be nice.
But get *****
Smile and laugh.
But be mature.
Be positive.
And accept criticism.
Take abuse.
But never give it.
All these things are true.
But the one thing people tend to forget about skating:
Amongst the physical pain and mental pressure.
Behind the bruises and broken ankles.
Under the glares and competition.
People always forget to have fun. Skating is supposed to be fun. But despite the unbelievably hard work it requires to have success, without fun, nothing matters.
People try every day.
But all of them will fail.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
In this moment
I’m a petal of rose
Often mocked that I am one
By other flowers
Who look up to the same sun
I feel plucked from my root
Mangled and ****
I was born bare
That which was my beauty
But in this crude exposure
trapped in some snare
My skin burns in ******
I feel ghastly blows of wind
And wailing typhoon
Dent rustic parts of my skin
Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain
Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain
I wonder how I would be
If I were a dandelion
I could let my fragments loose
And watch their flight
Into ethereal sunshine
I’m a trampled rose
Like the woe in Christ’s song
I’ve plagiarised the words
It seems
But this is how it feels
To be forlorn
And I have a mind of my own
Alas! That’s what I thought
Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced
tainted and stale
Like a can of delight
Only store bought
off a bargain
What if I were only a little flower
whose shoot grew
Piercing out of a rocky crevice?
A small star
trying hard to shine its hardest
in its constellation
Blotted with sparkling lights?
How can I make myself known?
Do I have to?
Is it a sin? To be alone?
To be a petal of rose and please you?
Can’t I be my own?
A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root
That can shy away if touched
And bloom when in mood?
No, I really don’t want to stick to a season
And have visitors
gawk at me then
I want to be really loved in person
Even when I’m dying
and my stalk is bent
now, I wonder
Does a flower think so much?
Does it write a poem
When its feelings are fractured
And they need a crutch?
I’ve seen it be
Just lucid and carefree
And, all of a sudden
I’m jolted with an epiphany
of simply being.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
Luke was such a dreadful fidget
He couldn't sit still for a minute
He'd toss and turn all lesson long
Like a caterpillar crawling on a cattle prong
He'd flick his rulers, click his pens
Cluck and fuss like a headless hen.
His tutor, a tall and sombre man
Was struggling with his teaching plan
He'd taken three days to prepare
But Luke was more than he could bare.
"Right! That's it! I've had enough!
If you don't stop I'll call your mum.
Unless you're really in fact quite ill
I'd advise you to stop it. Oh do keep still!
I'm just about to lose my mind, oh Luke
You're being quite unkind!"
But Luke was on a sugar high
"I can't stop!" He said, "I don't know why!"
And with that he jumped up, began to dance
He leaped and swung and swooped and pranced
Till all the neighbours gathered round
To gaze and gawk at this unsightly sound...
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.
my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside
the wastelands are beautiful
as you gawk
at the red
sun
a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein
in a mind shaft.
with a bad back
and no front.
but a lasting gasp....
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Mamie leaned
against a sitting camel
on the beach
at base camp
outside Tangiers
fiddling with her camera
clothed
in her red two piece
bathing kit
and pink framed
sunglasses
her reddish hair
a mass of curls
looking quite fuckable
as you snapped her picture
with your camera
with the Moroccan guy
looking towards you
thinking maybe the same
holding the rope
leading to the camel
and she said
I wasn’t ready
I was trying to get
my camera set
looking at you
through her darkened lens
holding her camera
in her hands
the Moroccan guy
looking bored
wanting his pay
and to move on
well I’ve got you now
you said
something to gawk at
in my lonely hours
you could have waited
she said
the sun’ll go in a few hours
you joked
ha-ha
she replied
she paid the guy
and left him
and the camel
and walked towards you
her bare feet
left footprints
in the damp yellow sands
the camel stinks
she said
and so does he
she steadied her camera
and walked back a few paces
and said
pose yourself
and so you posed yourself
standing there
in your white tee shirt
and blue jeans
your hair windswept
your features set
in a sun blinded smile
hold it
she said
hold what?
you asked
the pose
she said crossly
just like that
and she snapped the shot
and gazed at you
through the dark lens
of her sunglasses
her small plump ****
wanting to escape
her red bathing top
and the sun still there
in the blue sky
the Moroccan guy gone off
down the beach
the camel following him behind
and you studied Mamie
as she walked back
towards base camp
with love making thoughts
in your sun baked mind.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
fury, winds raged the treetops
threshing branches, approaching brush.
but from a distance, natural destruction,
looked like beauty in the forest.
and this was just a piece.
this is not the whole.
inhale, exhale,
increasing repetitions
repeat, repeat.
decrease and deepen.
pause in awe of the machine you're given
watch the forest faint, beatific ruin.
feel the fibers tear in effort
feel the area inside you swell
this is just a piece
this is not the whole.
process unto another day
with brighter light and seasoned winds
as repeated swells exhale an ending breath
gawk, inhale, hold, process, yawp; repeat.
understand this thing, know it truly
die through effort, repeat, repeat.
beaks with feathered wings swarmed in silence
Persephone cheers with distance, "defy their gravity"
here; pause; absorb the leaded revolution
weigh inside this mockery of death
"this is just a piece,
this is not the whole."
abandon seated distance, chase with fire
the unknown of the unfolding.
ravenously consume the untouchable time
feed, inhale, pause, process, exhale, deepen
repeat, repeat;
endlessly repeat.
this is just a piece,
this is not the whole.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
*Let SPAM reign supreme
Same as all mediocrities
Hello Poetry*
*Let lame egos win
Peacocks, fops, vacuous thoughts
Hello Poetry*
*Let psychopaths shine
Make all the peacocks *******
Satan ruling hell*
*Hello Poetry
Tireless self promoters
Hoarders of nothing*
*Let the clueless gawk
At the boneyard of Peacocks
Feather blatherings*
*Hello Poetry
******* all life out of it
Allowing lame writers*
*Wolf Spirit blows hard
Clueless rube awful Pontiff
Hello Poetry*
*Stars shining in void
If ever there was lameness
Hello Poetry*
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
I saw her once in passing
Once only!
But once was enough
For I never stopped seeing her
She was everywhere
She was everyone
All day, all night
My heart gave her no rest
Tirelessly and aimlessly
She roamed through my mind
For days and weeks and months
Our paths never crossed again
I was grieved!
I should have made my move then
But how could I?
How do I approach such beauty?
With what would I catch her fancy?
Why should such perfection, regard me?
Would I ever see her again?
Was she gone forever?
The thoughts made me nauseous,
Made me sweat and shiver all at once.
Time passed
And she faded with it
She was gone forever.
I will never see her again
I dwell on more concrete thoughts now
As I leave the office, famished.
Entering a cafe
I spot a familiar figure by the bar
All fatigue and hunger flee-
She's the one!
I approach her,
As the DJ plays something soft
I forge on,
Fighting my greatest fear.
With a husky voice that barely made it out,
"Hello", I whisper
She turns, facing me squarely
Eyes so lovely, piercing my being.
Eternity must have passed, cos she awoke me
"Yes?" She blurted
I gawk for a moment, then I stutter,
"I, I **** at pick-up lines, but can I have this dance?"
She smiles!
Revealing perfectly crafted, white teeth (unlike mine)
Increasing my already rapid heartbeat
As she offers her left hand,
And I take it in my right
And lead her to the dance floor,
Praying for God's mercy and grace.
I awake again- from my trance
As the music fades
Determined, I stop right behind her
And as I dare to open my mouth...
A muscular dude snatches her from the side
Turning, she hugs him and they kiss.
I swallow hard!
Wanting to be him.
Unsure of what to do next, I sit by her
The bartender salutes me
"Coffee?"
"Nah" I mutter, as I stand to leave; feeling stupid.
I take one more look at her, probably my last
As she giggles lovingly
In the arms of another
Oblivious of my existence
My heart burns
As the DJ plays a familiar tune-
James Blunt's You are Beautiful
I leave the cafe
Sad as ever, as reality dawns
No use dreaming further
She's in love with another
She will never be mine
She's gone for life!
© Raphael Uzor
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
I must write a poem
symphony of synonyms
hurricane of hyperboles
mobocracy of metaphors
floodgates in my fingers
obstruct my insanity.
No monsoon of carefully selected
adjectives, nouns, verbs
storming blank parchment
running ink stores dry.
Instead I simply gawk
at the word-worthy world.
Write poems on the seams of my skin
and under my eyelids.
Engrave the secrets of my crux
in the stem of my brain.
Cut out my own tongue.
Useless in formation of my phrases,
they are inconceivable
to modern man.
You'll never see my madness untill you examine my insides
cut me open, unravel the mystery in my cold blood,
Find me dead and read my lips.
they will be stuck in a
morbid smile
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
I am only pretty when I'm naked.
I did not give you permission to **** me inside of your head.
Please get your imaginative hands off of my unobtainable soul,
and close your mouth,
you're drooling like a coward when he sees something that he cannot have.
I belong to no one but myself.
I am old enough to know the rights of my body.
I am only pretty when I'm naked.
Stop recording every moment we will never have with your undistracted eyes.
I did not ask for this,
I am covered in clothes that do not accent the curvature of my frame and yet still you gawk,
and I will be asked what I was wearing that night.
I was wearing my right to say no,
but to him I was wearing my inferiority.
I am only pretty when I'm naked.
I am a female powerhouse.
I am competent with my tongue in many ways yet you ache to abuse it.
I am inclined to tell you what is best for me, but I am a woman.
And I know nothing.
You will beat it into me until I actually know something so well that I choke on it.
I am only pretty when I'm naked.
I am incapable of loving because, to you, I am not justified,
so you will show me how until I cannot breathe any longer.
The bruises and scars will taint my porcelain skin like mud on brand new sneakers,
except the black, blue, and crimson cannot be rinsed from my body
as easily as my clothes were removed by you.
I am only pretty when I'm dead.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
i am a wavebreaker
i am a bloated body drifting in the ocean
i stop boats in their paths
for wealthy tourists to gawk
and ask me
where im from, where im headed, where ive been
but i only reply in silence
and bubbles that escape my lips
i am a wavebreaker
i cut through the waves like a blade to the neck
i rot and i burst
and i spread the remnants of myself across the world
to be remembered
to be known
to let them know of my remains
that i remain
i am a wavebreaker
i break the waves caused
by those wanting to wreck cities
i am what goes against the current
i am what stays when everything rushes past me
i am a wavebreaker.
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 7:16 AM 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
Ramble shamble gamble preamble .
Wild child dialed beguiled .
Crawl small ; fall tall ; wall all ; mall brawl doll you all .
Black sack fact track Jack smack wack maniac pack . Back hack , knack
flack , lack kayak rack tack .
Phone roan tone zone bone hone ; drone known . Own moan loan .
Talk rock ; gawk hawk ; shock lock ; **** dock ; balk , stalk walk .
Bristling gristle glimmer glisten .
Quaint paint saint feint aint .
Expressed suppressed repressed biased .
Ecstatic emphatic fanatic .
Lecherous treacherous .
Obtuse abstruse .
Whirl curl ; hurl furl .
Test west quest ; jest guessed ; blessed best crest behest . Conquest ,
invest zest ; rest nest .
Cohort cavort . Gulch mulch .
Raven haven saven braven .
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 5:46 AM UTC