"piggled" poems
I luv my ford fiesta
Her name is princess Elsa
Because she's frozen white
And because she's automatic
To drive her is a delight
We go for miles Elsa am me
Up to the towncentre
On a shopping spree
Down to Dunelms on to Tesco
Where we buy food to eat alfresco
On sunny days we go to buy plants
Sometimes tree's or flowers sweet
Some to plant higgledy piggled
Or some to plant neat
Whatever the weather rain or shine
Me and my Elsa we do just fine
She's good on fuel
And great on looks
She may not be a flashy SAV
With all its arrogant ways
But she's kinder on the environment
And in my book that's what pays
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.
In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over pot-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.
Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.
On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.
Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!
Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.
A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:
Doom upon all the world.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 6:26 AM UTC
out the frigde and in me gob
taste of wine it feels so good
down the hatch and in me tum
now im ****** and need sum grub
feel it slip so down my throat that taste of heaven
burning so
taste that summer so long ago burning heating
body glow
feelin drunk yet only tiddled
soon be drunk and really piggled
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 6:24 AM UTC
What the **** just happened,
I once was doing- well, at least okay,
And then the world came crashing around me,
Once staying afloat,
Believing in Kingdom Come,
Now I'm just running to a different tune.
Staying east of the wind,
So my **** doesn't knock me on my ***
Maybe it was the piggled-eggs I ate,
Maybe it was what I drank,
A little ***** and some juice,
But the little turned out to some more,
And I'm ****** up once again.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC