There once was a very fine cat called Flick.
A more respected cat there has never been.
Well groomed, very proud and much admired.
Flick was well educated and some would say both wise and smart.
So well admired and trusted that even fish looked up to him.
Now Flick ran a local school which offered very specialized classes.
Adult fish would drop their hatch-lings off to learn from Flick.
So many hatch-lings were trusted to Flick's care.
For many years and generations hatch-lings came and went.
Flick's prestige and adoration growing as the years passed.
Then one day....
A former hatch-ling... much older and somewhat troubled by life,
spoke out aloud of his time at Cat Flick School and of how the Cat Flick upon the hatch-lings was Fed A Pile.
By any standard all the fish agreed... such is a Cardinal sin.

People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.

I look out my left window,
Zero.

I glance out my right window,
Zero.

The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.

We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.

In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?

There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.

Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.


The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.

In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells

People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.

Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.

No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.

Maybe,
It’s not about finding
The light at the end of the tunnel,
Maybe,
The tunnel doesn’t even
End, and the light isn’t
The warm glow of a
Sun so high above,
But the dim illumination
From a floodlight, dusty,
And draped with cobwebs,
And maybe,
The floodlight isn’t there,
It’s shattered and its pieces
Bury into the skin of your
Bare feet as you step on them,
And continue to trek forward in
Darkness, towards the next light.
Maybe,
That’s a good thing.
You’re in a tunnel after all,
You can’t drown in blackness as
Easily as you can the sea.
Maybe,
The extra darkness
Makes the next floodlight
Brighter, and you’ll
Stop, and bathe in it a
While as your aching lings
Finally rest.
Maybe,
If you’re brave,
You’ll think you can
Live under the light,
Unaware that you’ll
Lose your knowledge
Of the darkness,
And when your light
Finally coughs,
And shudders
And dies,
You’ll get lost in the dark again,
Turned around,
Heading away from the new lights ahead.
Or maybe,
You prefer the shadows,
Carry a bat,
Or a golf club,
Or whatever blunt weapon
Catches your fancy,
And you smash each light
You pass,
Cutting the feet of all those
Behind.

Maybe,
There isn't a light at the end of the tunnel,
Just an endless string of floodlights,
Bright,
Shattered,
And lost.

Sapphire eyes descending my torso
Have I a head, or is there just more so?
That you require upon evaluation
Leading me on orbiting space station
Had no idea, this alien encounter of ours
One of affection; should have brought flowers
Am I your mate-ling, here for devours?

Crystalline follicles free flowing hair
You meet me in spacesuit whilst I am bare
This really be not most fair advantage
Your briefings seemingly micromanage
Intergalactic trans-species inseminations
Are forbidden by Rules of Constellular Nations
Yet admitting magnet-ting emitting vibrations

Super charged particles pucker your orifice
It is enticing this boudoir you have by Uranus
The décor is all slippery, wet and inviting
I must admit to you, it all very ionic exciting
Are we to agree to be astral *** players?
When shall I see what lie beneath foiled layers?
Drop your robes please, I am with no nay-sayers

I travel alone, as Lone Space Ranger
This proposition to me I find intrigued danger
A plus and a minus electric storm lingers
Exceedingly long seem your definitive fingers
Polarities, rarities amongst planetoid creatures
Though I’m quite digging your extended features
I’m glad we’re alone to be each others teachers

Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?


- These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lings that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable, and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.


Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
- Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
- Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.

Green little elf-ling,
Why do you hide from me so?
Do not be afraid.

I am but a traveller,
From very far away lands.

Hear me green elf-ling.
Why do you bear your sharp knife?
Please do not fear me.

I have come to seek refuge.
In a world where it’s seldom.

Show yourself elf-ling.
Is it true that it’s safe here?
I’ve heard many tales.

Stories of the high elf-lings,
The most prosperous people.

Tell me green elf-ling,
Has my journey been fruitless?
All this way for nought.

Have you not seen the others?
Are you the last of the elves?

I don't practice voodoo,
sticking pins in dolls
& playing with snakes
ain't my thing.

Santeria is not what I do,
slaughtering chickens
& shaking up bones
is for ding-a-lings.

But take black magic,
now that's different,
it's boss,
I can cast a mean spell,
mix you up a nasty potion.

When my mind is at rest I think of peace and blissful things
I see the unfettered and innocent smile of a new babe in arms
Or the Omnipotence gilded arms outstretch showering blessings
The shores of a pristine beach with blue waves marking times
Silver sunset sprinkling magic across quiet waters with no stressing
Or me sat at my fathers feet as he reads engrossed in his charmes
My mind rests easy in places of warmth and enriching lovings


My mind has no space to linger in the murkiness of failings
I do not plunge dark dept to court the uninspiring s in terms
To share company with wretches with wasted mental ecthings
Eyes that see dew in darkness and acrimony in fruitless farms
Voices made for howling dirges and apostles of negative cravings
Demented downers who drink from the fountains of fallen vamps
Satiated miserably they seek to retch their stench on followings


My mind finds the luminous stars and praise their spark-lings
It atunes to the silent melodies of sages who now sleep uncramp
It relishes the delights of the million trillion wonders tinklings
Its marvels the joys of the thousand mothers holding new champs
Can share the lifting dreams of hopes for happy new beginnings
Living is never about waste for the Creator avails no dumps
For a mind that lives and grows in the Light is forever inspired and inspiring



Copyright LaurencA.1stAugust2018.All rights reserved

Death is as much an illusion as most see and play life!!! So which one is dying daily and whom is born again...
I'd say each!!! Falling away and forever more entwined!!!!

Ever so without
a long time ago
what could be

was too
all ready

but who
could ponder
or be fonder

floundering
alone in the dark

the Great Heart
being torn

loathed
self scorned

firstly folded
grieving

what is Word
with out Heard
but scribbler
to paper
and shred-lings
un-delivered
sliverings

cooling
cold
cruel shiverings
of eternal longing's ...

...so Self
did part
as partner's
Of Great LOVE
In Darkness and Light
tickled so...

..In Love
the Great laughed
and said
'it is Beginning';
'I Willith'
Giving Her
House Aglow...
'then time I better give also'
for soiled eyes to re see eve from the womb
of ALL before they steal the show!!!

So It Is Sown!!!

From,
The Heart of the Infinite Deep Dark Sea of LOVE <3 <3 :) :)!!!
From where she and all is sprung and springs still and still;
Where if some is Good More Is Given!!!!

Welcome to the 8th of Days...
My Dearly departed and imperishable ones of such this very LOVE!!!

Arise! Arise you hopeful young tadpoles.
Come forth ye mighty messengers of joy.
To arms my children... To Arms!
This be no game. Don't let it fool you..
Can't you see our trickster ? I know I can.
He's always smiling, eagerly baring his teeth,
flashing them for our prying, unsavoring eyes.
And we, we my friends, are staring dully onward
Blind to his sarcasm, blinded by our own vision.
Oh you young hopefuls.
Why do you trouble us with such ancient questions ?
Why are you not of the learned ?
All you were destined to do was shine and light up the night's sky..
Like earthly Orion's celestial belt.
Why must you burrow now ?
Arise you tender hatch-lings... break your eggs.
Can't you see how fragile your shell shields actually are ?
I know I can.
To arms my children! join me in oblivion.
The fray is but a ruse.
Fear is a coward's excuse.
Be swift of hand and light of heart.
Your minds are but sandboxes.
Were they not once empty ?
Before mighty Morphius visited our backyards;
they were all empty, barren and oh so hopeful.
Oh you mighty brother of Delight... It was your cruelty that dragged her down.
Down into delirium.
where she now giggles, cries, screams and gasps in symposium.
you broke her, although she may have been broken earlier.

Arise you miserable tadpoles. The land is warm and welcoming.
Its soil, sands and snow all ache for your budding legs.
Say No to vegetative awareness.
Say No to boredom's persistence.
Come forth you mighty messengers of joy.
Slip on your armor, this is going to be a rough ride.
Our home awaits.
And now allow me to light your bottoms on fire.
And launch you into space.
I won't stand for no crier.
And when you face your brothers; those ugly friars.
Those frogs.
These acclaimed humans, your so called kin and countrymen;
Do not hide your hatred; bury not your malice, but your sympathy.
So when you see their beady empty eyes and power hungry lashes and whip like tongues;
don't fret and don't seek to befriend them.
For their sweat is poison and they reek of cyanide.
Don't seek safety by joining them.
Arise my children and step into my light.
The cakes are all warm and today's sun is still bright.

Maybe writing will save me
but tell that to Virginia Woolf
When my body lays in the soil to
fertilize the Earth maybe
I will come back as an Aspen tree
and the robins could make circular nests
to safe keep their hatch-lings
I was baptized in neon lights
In the city of Denver
like living in a snow globe
driving drunk after hours
I wonder what Times Square
looks like right now
These tailor made dreams
entire generations chasing paper
Get rich quick schemes where the
obstinate promise of prosperity
will be our legacy and anchor
Where's the avatar of our times
Is he or she working in an office
or clipping coupons and getting by
just barely on rent  working in
a dispensary selling legal marijuana?      
old enough to go to war but not get drunk
off tequila
it seems like massive hysteria
and I was at the grocery store buying
bread and the cashier was talking about
New World Order, the Illuminati and
receiving a red sticker in the mail.
Graffiti-tombs and voodoo
I wonder where Lord Byron is buried?
I wonder if Jesus is coming back
or if terrorists will listen to the Beatles
and declare that love is all you need.

Bathsalts,
Oh bathsalts.
How I love to smoke you
and get so high.
I swear sometimes I bump my head on the clouds.
Epson's your hard sharp crystals
sift through my fingers,
stick under my nails
when I scoop you out of your bag
and dump you in my pipe.
I love the sandy sound you make,
the gritty smell you give off when you burn.
I'll hold you in my lings like a lover
and cough you back out.
I'll embrace the munchies
and eat everything in sight.
You make everything taste better,
especially my neighbors.

He was fat in the corner.
The walls stood straight to crest the ceiling in place.
The boy’s arches were eroded enough to roll him out his created abode.
But it stuck between the sharpness of its lines pin cushioned on his body.
It blocked its concrete sound.
It nailed his waist into the water of floor as if it was holding buoyancy.
The floor which was like an ocean hung his body to only sit and stay.  
This is where he would sit.
This is where he viewed his world.
With his Cable T.V., he viewed the world.
He became them in a sense of what they know.
Sometimes he was the sailor man saving the gal in the red turtleneck.
Sometimes he just wanted more than ****** snacks.
It was the static that came into it and the tremor of the popguns and bicycle punches.
His costume was the hand that drove into his pocket for yellow spheres of his personal favorite.

His fingers would unwrap the same world over and over again.
No matter how many copies.
They were in wrappers.
They were in silver lings of the stuff in what was known to stick and to sit on my palm like reflected sunsets.
These were in forgotten little notes to the odes of what was the turn of his tongue. He loved being sweet.
He loved to chew it ever so darling.
He crunched.
His mouth builds a castle.
To the eyes arrived in clouded visions coming from within.
As the teeth gnash off to the nectars and nips of sugar, butter, milk in *****, the crystals vanish.
They dazzled the eyes with images from the inside.
It was the way it took into him.
His cheeks became lambent as they were sagging off his face.  
In the motion was a peripheral point of the lips.
It would drag him into crave.
No more of waiting for it to melt.

The time was hung out to see the beat of his little heart.
He could have no more candy.
20 years later, he should have nothing more.
It was enough to make the scale rotate against zero.
But no one measured his content.
No one measured the happy in his heart.  
No one knew that what he wanted was just to taste the good.
He just wanted the tip of the tongue
To take him beyond a state of sitting and standing without really moving.
He wanted to walk on ice but float above its glass.
But he was going to die.
He would. He would eventually. They would say. Mother said.
Mother said this in her prim voice with all the promises of chocolate coated crisps in the world. He will choose to smile.
But here he is. He is still alive.
He is still rolling into the rears of his rounds.
He still loves what he is.
He still loves what he ate.
The choice of change is in his grip and so are his pockets.
They are still full of his old favorites.
He will take them when God takes him into his pockets.
He will be sweet.
He will be his own butterball.
He will be wrapped in what is 25 years.

Western winds whipping with a will
Restless rains taking refuge among the wren
You're on a running rally all on your lonesome
Gallantly exploring the pallet the elements deigned this morn
The ghosts dance, their wispy waltz shattering our heavy hoof-prints
Mosey-on 'round the bend your eyes will lend.....
This scene, near winter's end --in pastel golden air, the shadows turning themselves to where-without mass.
Hold your mouth aghast,
Breathe gently of the metallic merriment, soak it up.
Take it with you as you go.
Feast your eyes on the fresh diamond formed in the re-fined rough..
Then smile with your musings, let the doubt-lings gab if they must.

Against  the shimm'ring shivers of the white-gold mists, the grey-blue veil fills out against the frightened forest, anxious of the morn to come.
Not count yourself among those who shrink but those who harmonize with the chorus of the skies.
So be you not fearful of the morn to come, the raw potential of it all,
Rush into the recesses of the mind to find yourself rinsed in silver & gold.

While it's certainly true
That you annoy me no end,
I love the fact that you exist
'Cause my mirth may never end.

You think your soft, comfortable life
Will continue forever; Always getting better,
Never losing lustre - You-butte, Brand-spanking New!
It's unfortunate you Brainwash the Under-feet-lings too!

Now what do we get for our peace of mind?
Defenceless society when the Under-dogs bite!
A deep-set idiocy - distracted, but not engaged;
Living batteries for Another's Pleasure and Pain.

Some people have worked **** hard for their security;
Their privileges and indulgences and perks of service.
But these brave souls are few and far between;
More likely quietly, patiently, happily waiting their day
When they can once again enjoy the prestige
Of calling a F**k-wit or rude ***** exactly what they are,
Without the undue fear of a litigious future looming.

No-one is purrfect, but some people never learn
To accept themselves for who they are;
They need only look inside - reflective thinking -
To conclude that those insensitive ****-ostriches
Should just be laughed at until they see the travesty
Of a farcical life worthwhile while it lasts.

Moon:
“O Sky! How hideous, and dark am I?
With hatred, looks a tiny fly.
O Sky! How evil, and ugly am I?,
Even death is too scared to cry.”

Sun:
“O friend! Don't heed the fly nor death,
They are the waste-lings of the earth.
O friend! Take a part of my breath,
and be renewed, with a new birth.”

Moon:
“O Sun! How can I,
Am I not the ugly one?”
Sun:
“O Love! How can you not,
Am I not the mighty one?”

Moon:
“Thankful, am I to you,
Humble, am I to me.”

Sun:
“O Love! How beautiful you are,
The light, you always scare away,
But night always welcomes you.
But I still for-see, a peaceful way.”

Moon:
“O Sun! Did I not tell you?
I am the ugly one.
Even you ran away from me,
Where do I run?”

the ember, the light
the 4 year old's delight
it stays,  maintains
through the darkness and pain
the confusion and shame
it betrays and lays
but choice remains
light vs dark?
light claims and stays
the joy the bright brings
hides the dark cloud that lings
step ahead of the shadow
of sorrow and shame
and follows the glow of the flame

How it drags those old stones
this saddened exhalation
carved by mystery's familiar hand
throwing down ta represent
burning bushes, city, civilization
best and worst of ish
taled to young-lings and old **** alike
these glass towers of Batsi hype
all them homies Hallelujah-jah
that cancer eating up their bones

When the spirit grooves y'all
and its nature moves wrawl
take that animal for a stroll
down fifth avenue, crawl
black and blue for someone
let them know your lovelies
build a story told with heart
forget stark fable's Telly parts
live to breath in honest crest
counting coup eat up the rest

-cec

You know those movies where there is someone who can read minds?
They are able to know what everyone is thinking?
That person usually does the coolest things with his power
Except at the end, he kills himself

You see, I have a power kinda like that
Except I feel what others feel
There was this girl I met once
This is how it went

The second she walked through the door, here overwhelming presence of pain and lost dreams collide over me like a tsunami
And she spoke, knives of steel spit from her tongue slice into my lings letting in more of the water
As we go to shake hands, the poison from the blade she once held drips onto my skin burning like acid
Every faulty statement and untrue word is like a **** to my head
She tried to cover up her scars with a smile that fades when the lights are out, and a personality made up of broken promises
If you were to meet her, you'd fall in love
But to look inside her mind is like opening Pandora's box
I smiled and waved as the last of her words ripped my heart apart

With the last of her presence leaving the room
I wake stretching for breath
Opening my eyes to find I'm in my room
Realizing I've just met myself

twirl ballroom spritz
    'cross abandoned parking lots

weave your lamentations
    out in umber mist

gin and panadol
white arsenic cordial

death drive in moderation                      


bushy dough
down your gumboot towers
yyo faggg
fark your sign'a'lings
carped up in the haddock pouch

in maudlin dreams
swirl your phone sleeve
round your wristflick
                                         nah
you blooster mate
right cranberry

where the **** is it? where the **** did you put it? it's not funny, hahaha, oh god, hahaa…..


but     later,    


  radio incinerator
   nightcap in sodium cloud
beached tire tree

All Joe king aside

Humor iz vital stove topface
component to survive the cares
and concerns oven uncertain
culinary future, that presages

over heating of this planet
concomitant with extinction
per the human race. Many
gauges point toward an
irrevocable debacle where

the evolutionary timer seems
to tick, head, and (hmm…
more like barreling) toward
becoming a cooked goose.

An ear splitting ruth less
buzzer will be an impossible
mission to clap quiet while
steam issues out the airwaves

from stymied paunchiest pilot
light buck kit brigade. If and/
or when such a fiery fate befalls
this arrogantly bombastic,

conceitedly egoistic, forlorn,
grievously hapless, irascibly
jangling, kookily middling
luddite, he hopes his demise

will be brutish, short and nasty
while surviving foreign legion
members of locked humanity
hob bull along the blitzed
boulevard of broken dreams.

Whatever provokes a maniacal
person to laugh as the world
turns tumultuously affecting
a surreal ambience akin to the
edge of night (especially with

dark shadows) may appear
wantonly vapid unspooling
threnodies sotto voce.
Rational quartermasters
promulgated outlandish no mans land.

Knowledge jackknifed ideal
humane gentility. Febrile earth
lings’ dragnet cleaved bona fide
actualization. What other option

available to tinker, tailor, soldier
spy except to chuckle at the folly
gingerly loosened upon the terra firmae?
Nothing short of an uproarious chortle

would be prescribed from doctor
demento to ameliorate the tightly
wound tension arising from local

or global aggression arising from
bullies calling their bluff fed goat
bluster, division by the zero
sum game of thrones. Thus,

this mechanically nonsensical,
pop sic cull *** purée to throw
fire retardant on the conflict frission
intonating loopy outré playfulness

with words hoop ping quadratic
equations totally add further
meaninglessness. Hence **** friend,
aye axe hew, how does humor get decided?

Laughter versus humor All Joe king aside.
Jest parody offers funny types of humor.
Seriously folks. What spurs this laughter?
Repression of natural mandated libidinal
kickstarter jammed in high gear feeds

e-z dropsy clodhoppers bursts of hyena
sounding eruptions! The cervical contractions
puffed up like jiffy pop laced pompadour,
increased with greater frequency and

intensity asthma due date approached
(which felt like violent shaking of the
biological ***** re: me), especially
prominent when “mother” gracefully
described Arabesque. She gravitated

to modus operandi sans professional
ballet dancer like a duck would drake
to water, and salve and duff heat whirled
pool ache kin to preparation H - soothing

the pain in the *** of hemorrhoids. Hours
elapsed with incessant stretching (while
in a standing pose) blithely drawing one leg
or the other up against those roseate ****** cheeks.

Even when quite progressed along
the family way with yours truly, thy
status while in utero where ******
stretched akin to a taut rubber band

near ready tubby (or knot tibia) snapped,
like ballet slippers suspending balanced
***** of toes pointed to maximum flexion,
or inflated balloon ready to pop beyond
capacity or, bulged in utero, she maintained

a fanatic, maniacal, and slavish veneration
asper the rigorous being a choreographed
top notch ballerina. This passion to bend
body electric defied laws of fig newton’s,

finagled parallel dimensions, and hugged
joie de vivre limbs maintaining nonchalant
passion recognized talent unbridled versatility
waiving youngest attaining burlesque,

Churrigueresque dramatic elegiac fluidity
transformed thine mama into a holographic,
kaleidoscopic, and opportunistic piquant
rondelet thru vitality, whimsicality, and zealotry.

Gracefulness hove spectators to behold defiance
asper flexibility of muscles in conjunction with
defiance of physics. Once immersed in a classical
routine, thee supple rubbery form assumed

by thine mother ******* focused klieg lights
upon wondrous kinetic magic. An audience
member vicariously experienced dalliance
of some mind-numbing narcotic minus
the addiction. Stupefaction trans fixed gaze

upon the dynamic parameters of space
and time to present an enchanting move
able feast replete with operatic poetry,
quixotic romanticism, and sculpturesque

statuesque totemic union verging on affects
cast by a singular whirling dervish. A
heightened indoctrination of jubilation
radiated from every cell of this artiste

in motion. Pirouettes cast grotesque dark
shadows and etched the faux edge of
night scenario with gigantesque ghoulish
phantasmagoric veterans of many tragic-

comic composers long since vetted into
the storied ballroom of fame. No surprise
then that when mine exit from the berth
canal of stage nom de plume Harriet Harris

witnessed by a full house, my denouement
propelled from the tender vittles tulip ruffled
private naughty bits induced balletic movements.
Meanwhile me mum (real name christened Chrys

Anne Thumb) busily intensely engrossed herself
(terrifically totally tubularly) within whose inter
twined arms and legs that emulated an analogy
to a pretzel held me snug as a bug in rug. A pause

(which many interpreted to initiate an applause)
sprung a contagion of hand clapping that drowned
out the impetus signifying the first breath of
this wordsmith. Only as the slap happy flesh

diminished did ardent hard fans of a triumphant
fancy feast and foot loose Gangnam style winged
goddess take stock of the starlit cradling a newborn.
Frightful faces and peculiar sounds appeared scary.

Thence spurred via submit able exertion climaxing
with a riveting acrobatic contortion (essentially
forcing this now grown baby boomer former chap -
lain cocooned for nine months within the womb),

thyself made headway into an alien world, whereat
this full term new born did provide his own wailing
lyrics (even at that tender infant hood, an iconoclastic
antiestablishmentarian). This now grown baby boomer

chap lain cocooned for nine months within the womb,
who sought nothing more nor less than that which
necessitates being swaddled, pampered, mollycoddled,
cuddled, bundled, and held close to the *****. As

grown middle-aged madman (albeit married to
X-Files rabid fan) still craves, desires, and gloms
toward picturesque pairs of pendulous pliant plump prized
politically incorrect breastworks.

Gold teeth with fake smiles
Sold beings with snake tounges
Dig gold in mines than in lings
World sees no value in beings
But seeks value in things

Assets driven soul
Casket risen goals
May the sunset unfold
Before the riots roar

My Uncle John was a woebegone
In the all out way of things,
Wherever he went, no sun had shone
And we all were ding-a-lings.

He had no time for the hoi poloi
Or women who rant and tweet,
He’d pick on their saddest attributes
When he said they had ugly feet.

But those that he hated most were men
With money, and stick-out ears,
He said they could overhear him when
He whispered to privateers.

When I was a boy, I looked for joy
But he only gave me grief,
He’d say a bloke with a silly joke
Was simply a petty thief.

He’d never praise original thought
He’d say that it sounded dumb,
His wife Elaine said he’d still complain
As long as he sat on his ***.

She once cooked him a glorious meal
He muttered, and spat it out,
So Aunt Elaine said, ‘it’s such a shame,
I thought it might give him gout.’

I have to tell it was just as well,
He came to a terrible end,
He fell right back with a heart attack
When somebody called him ‘friend.’

We planted a bed of chrysanthemums
On his plot in the cemetery,
It gives him something to ***** about
When the cats go there to ***.

David Lewis Paget

I thought I would try it
and throw my hat into the ring:( :)
Don't need a friend on the wing :)
Don't have to dress for winter or spring :)
Everyone is  looking and wanting a little  fling :)
Some may even swing :)
Never can you see if they are wearing a wedding  ring :(
But they don't mind showing their ding-a-lings :(
Some thinking they are Queens and Kings :(
Oh my!, Someone showing their *** hanging from a ceiling sling?? :(
Some loving to tie themselves  up in lots of string :-(
That was enough for me I  am done with
this on line dating thing !!!!!...