She learned to open her eyes under water
She's living under sea


She,

who didn't knew how to swim.

The Pedicab drivers of Gotham all say
You should ignore a "Whale Hail"
because it just doesn't pay.
The city is hilly and
to pedal gets tough
when your passengers are,
shall we say, overstuffed.

Two tubby tourists out on the town
between them they weighed about
Eight Hundred Pounds.
They had wiped out the Sushi
at an all you can eat.
Much too lazy to walk
on their overstressed feet.

They hailed for a Pedicab
of which there's a multitude
Thats the sole explanation
for accepting their pulchritude.

Their ride started slowly,
but pleasant enough.
But then came a hill
and the going got rough.

He groaned and he struggled
as he trucked up the road,
but not even juiced Armstrong
could handle this load.

With two tubby tourists
ensconced in the back.
He slowed to a crawl
then stalled in his tracks.

Something had to give
with those two in the rear
The cab then turned turtle
chucking him in the air.

The two tubby tourist
were down on their backs
Their driver unconscious
and two tires flat.

An Ambulance came
and gave him first aide
The two tourists rolled off
and he never got paid.

If we banned too large colas
and sixty ounce beers
could we hope that these
land whales
might,one day, disappear?

Until then its risky
to pick such fares up
unless in a limo
or a truck thats Ram tough

I'm a little sleep deprived, a little too high, (a little too low) a lot hungry, a little overstressed, a little unfocused, (unconscious?) waiting, a little sick from-a little more caffeine please my cigarette buzz is going,
a little sore from running away, a little sore from being alone

-on a person's 20th birthday

When I turned twenty I couldn't wait,
so sure was I to change the world.
Exactly right were all my thoughts
I couldn't ever stop to state.

So I turned fourty while I built and built
on top of my precisely stated schemes.
My loved ones warned me for collapse
but I would never stop, in it to the hilt.

When I turned sixty, felt a faint crack,
not in my infallible buildings
but in my overstressed back.

Now that I am eighty years of age
I know the way to perfection:
the missing line in your design
opens your cage for the future page.

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It seems frivolous
The frailties of humanity
Wasted potential
Perpetuated by sleep deprivation
And dehydration
Foggy eyed mouth dried
Dumbed down
Overworked
Overstressed
Then in the ground
What a waste
To waste away
In such a dreadful state
With only the hours between now and death
To enliven your dying breath
Perhaps there are better things to do

And everything was hunky dory
And everyone was feeling A-okay

America is so prosperous
And wealthy
In the good old U.S.A.

And nothing difficult
Or trying
Could ever happen here

America is invincible
They think

But I find it all so queer
So strange

America teeters
On the brink

And our corrupt government
Does really stink

Just one event
And America this ship
Will sink

Now there is chaos everywhere
And if you drive a C class

Well no one really cares

John the plummer is hungry
And so is family too

It's a martial law lock down
Now everyone is *******

When the systems that
Hold our society in place
Are completely overstressed

This society will turn
Into one great big mess

America no longer a sovereign nation
It's debts it cannot pay

Then they'll bring in the New World Order
To rule the day

Massive military vehicles
Roaming the streets

Now the middle class
Has barely enough to eat

A terrible time is coming
I don't know when

Keep your wits about you
And don't be afraid my friends

I just want to make a decent living
And lead a regular life

But in this new America
There may be nothing but strife

Chaos in a wind,
A whimper in a death,
A poet stands in a crowd
And lulls the words to grasp
The emtptiness:

Let sleep the order,
Chaos in a passion's touch,
Feel the fiber of existence
And know that one is nothing
And everything to himself.

Chaos like the scream in agony
And torture of the dance
Under the forgotten night
When under the portico
You held back from destiny's
Melody and order killed
The unborn.

Quiet the noise of bitter
Memory, take in hand that
Chaos in a world of numbers
And lose count the minutes
That always seem fleeting,

And a poet overstressed,
Underwhelming as poetry
Became a job,
When time is put into words,
Take the first draft and run,
Let go The editor.

Take it,
Its still there,
And the order is a chaos too.

The unfortunate character
trembled and tripped
He took a nasty spill
one day when he was already ill
The path was unlit, excessively muddy
and he slipped
Since he was into his second bottle of wine
and overstressed by his dunkenness
the cause of his fall
was indefinite
leading to the struggle
and trouble
of our kerfuffle

This Christmas folks are in distress
Some have much and some have less
People who are blessed
And others overstressed

Many have no place to go
As the cold winds blow
Many are in so much need
With families to somehow feed

Nobody deserved what happened here
The loss of life and all the fear
There are people with everything
And those with barely anything

Before we give what some don't need
Might we our hungry neighbors feed?
Then enjoy the season bright
Knowing that we got it right

Never had I felt like a smothered sea encased
in a blazing wave of blasted verbs, drumless diction
double spaced, misplaced, overstressed adjectives,
paralyzed personification, fever-struck similes dozing
off to sleep, inane, disdained, an oblivious masterpiece
covered in splintered storms, an earth burning boulevard.

My memories were stone-cold shattered, heavy droplets
of ****** paragraphs splattering onto inglorious fractions,
a fallen kingdom, a thousand smashed engines with no
invention, no ignition or transmission, spine-chilling addition,
insubstantial subtraction swallowed by miscellaneous derivatives
and division, running out of time, gone and overthrown.

Wish I could have understood the unearthly decimals
dwindling in perishable plantations, ****** equations
and integration, pepper sauce alleyways rearranging
my crazed nation, decapitated rhythms begging for restoration,
salvation from the damaging hellfire striking a match on history.