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"prig" poems
Lays of Mystery, Imagination, and Humor Number 1 I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble-wobble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, Awoke the never ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisy **** That shouted empty words and big At him that nodded in a wig. And one, a dotard grim and gray, Who wasteth childhood's happy day In work more profitless than play. Whose icy breast no pity warms, Whose little victims sit in swarms, And slowly sob on lower forms. And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Where flowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wanderer to snare. The fatal Notes neglected fall, No creature heeds the treacherous call, For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit men, The fictions of a lawyer's pen, Who never more might breathe again. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waiting on John Doe. "Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense With tales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence." "Vain", she replied, "such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such as these, No suits can suit, no plea can please." And bending o'er that man of straw, She cried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, "Law!" The well-remembered voice he knew, He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!" (Her very name was legal too.) The night was fled, the dawn was nigh: A hurricane went raving by, And swept the Vision from mine eye. Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy 'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead! Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, What time it shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls!
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The Palace of Humbug
Lays of Mystery, Imagination, and Humor Number 1 I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls, And each damp thing that creeps and crawls Went wobble-wobble on the walls. Faint odours of departed cheese, Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze, Awoke the never ending sneeze. Strange pictures decked the arras drear, Strange characters of woe and fear, The humbugs of the social sphere. One showed a vain and noisy **** That shouted empty words and big At him that nodded in a wig. And one, a dotard grim and gray, Who wasteth childhood's happy day In work more profitless than play. Whose icy breast no pity warms, Whose little victims sit in swarms, And slowly sob on lower forms. And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank, Where flowers are growing wild and rank, Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. All birds of evil omen there Flood with rich Notes the tainted air, The witless wanderer to snare. The fatal Notes neglected fall, No creature heeds the treacherous call, For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. The wandering phantom broke and fled, Straightway I saw within my head A vision of a ghostly bed, Where lay two worn decrepit men, The fictions of a lawyer's pen, Who never more might breathe again. The serving-man of Richard Roe Wept, inarticulate with woe: She wept, that waiting on John Doe. "Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense With tales of tangled evidence, Of suit, demurrer, and defence." "Vain", she replied, "such mockeries: For morbid fancies, such as these, No suits can suit, no plea can please." And bending o'er that man of straw, She cried in grief and sudden awe, Not inappropriately, "Law!" The well-remembered voice he knew, He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!" (Her very name was legal too.) The night was fled, the dawn was nigh: A hurricane went raving by, And swept the Vision from mine eye. Vanished that dim and ghostly bed, (The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy 'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead! Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls, What time it shudderingly recalls That horrid dream of marble halls!
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60
"To Lionel Engers-Kennedy: to the memory of Hargrave Jennings: and to A. C. W. G. and H. E. H." Beneath the vine tree and the fig Where mortal cares may not intrude, On melon and on ******* pig Although their brains are bright and big Banquet the Great White Brotherhood. Among the fountains and the trees That fringed his garden's glowing border, At sunset walked, and, in the breeze With his disciples, took his ease An Adept of the Holy Order. "My children," Said the holy man, "Once more I'm willing to unmask me. This is my birthday; and my plan Is to bestow on you (I can) Whatever favour you may ask me." Nor curiosity nor greed Brought these disciples to disaster; For, being very wise indeed, The adolescents all agreed To ask His Secret of the Master. With the "aplomb" and "savoir faire" Peculiar to Eastern races, He took the secret then and there (What, is not lawful to declare), And ****** it rudely in their faces. "A filthy insult!" screamed the first; The second smiled, "Ingenious blind!" The youngest neither blessed nor cursed, Contented to believe the worst - That He had spoken all his mind! The second earned the name of **** The first the epithet of ***** The third, as merry as a grig, On melon and on ******* pig Feasts with the Great White Brotherhood.
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The Disciples
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair, or SQUAT, The Akond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or HOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk or TROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat, or COT, The Akond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his T's and finish his I's with a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear Without a speck or a smudge or smear or BLOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or PLOT, At the Akond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or SHOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people **** in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, GAROTTE, The Akond of Swat? Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a JOT, The Akond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or WHAT, For the Akond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a LOT, For the Akond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe? Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe, or a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, SHALLOTT, The Akond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ, or a SCOT, The Akond of Swat? Does like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a GROTT, The Akond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a *** The Akond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe, or ROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a KNOT. The Akond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or NOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake in a YACHT, The Akond of Swat? Some one, or nobody, knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Akond of Swat?
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The Akond of Swat
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT? Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair, or SQUAT, The Akond of Swat? Is he wise or foolish, young or old? Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or HOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk, And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk or TROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat? Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat, or COT, The Akond of Swat? When he writes a copy in round-hand size, Does he cross his T's and finish his I's with a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Can he write a letter concisely clear Without a speck or a smudge or smear or BLOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people like him extremely well? Or do they, whenever they can, rebel, or PLOT, At the Akond of Swat? If he catches them then, either old or young, Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung, or SHOT, The Akond of Swat? Do his people **** in the lanes or park? Or even at times, when days are dark, GAROTTE, The Akond of Swat? Does he study the wants of his own dominion? Or doesn't he care for public opinion a JOT, The Akond of Swat? To amuse his mind do his people show him Pictures, or any one's last new poem, or WHAT, For the Akond of Swat? At night if he suddenly screams and wakes, Do they bring him only a few small cakes, or a LOT, For the Akond of Swat? Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe? Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe, or a DOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he like to lie on his back in a boat Like the lady who lived in that isle remote, SHALLOTT, The Akond of Swat? Is he quiet, or always making a fuss? Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ, or a SCOT, The Akond of Swat? Does like to sit by the calm blue wave? Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave, or a GROTT, The Akond of Swat? Does he drink small beer from a silver jug? Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug? or a *** The Akond of Swat? Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe, When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe, or ROT, The Akond of Swat? Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends, And tie it neat in a bow with ends, or a KNOT. The Akond of Swat? Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies? When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes, or NOT, The Akond of Swat? Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake? Does he sail about on an inland lake in a YACHT, The Akond of Swat? Some one, or nobody, knows I wot Who or which or why or what Is the Akond of Swat?
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88
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter, "little **** Bun replied, You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry: I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.
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Fable
36 Snow flakes. I counted till they danced so Their slippers leaped the town, And then I took a pencil To note the rebels down. And then they grew so jolly I did resign the **** And ten of my once stately toes Are marshalled for a jig!
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Snow flakes
Yowling, thrashing, squeezing me whole, She's slashing onyx crevices, my soul, Begging out, pleading forgiveness But I won't give in, I just press Down, fight now, hate this, This thing, this misfit, Crippled defect, this won't sit By me, won't defy me, Rip my nails down crusty Skin, she feels sick, I feel quick, I dig deep and can't keep From hissing, it's ******* me off! She cries but it makes me scoff. You pretty little folded bird, I'll smear you like a ******* **** I hate you, I hate me, So help me, I can't see, I can't bleed, I won't heed Your cruel trick, You foul **** Despise me! I hate me! I hate me! I can't See I Can't Breathe...
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Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Hate Me
In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *"It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. (Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you.) I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.
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Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
bluebird
You know what I am One side and the other Dawdling dreamer to the left **** do it now by right Separation by design How clever safely kept Yet merge and melt the magic path when hands are clasped voice rings from center Surprise result Human roulette.
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Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC
Corpus Callosum
In a Bluebird toffee tin Are a hundred letters – Most of them doodle-stamped and Delivered by hand. Unlike the letters I sent to you They do not smell of spritzed cologne, (A trick that I learned from Grease) They are not messy Or tea stained, But perfect powder blue And allowing for small extravagances – The Cursive of the Obsessive, Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts. I pick one out at random, A casually cruel one sent from Rome – I imagine you blinking on a balcony With dazzles on your collarbone, A teeny tiny sugarless coffee At your side, And a pen tapping your knee. *“I’m not a **** at all –“* you wrote, *It’s only that you are gregarious In the most DISGUSTING way. That’s your problem not mine - Your optimism won’t catch you. Cynicism won’t catch you either, But it has the courtesy not to throw you. I’m stopping now, By the time you get this I’ll be back home. What pointlessness we endure for one other. I miss you, as you say, ‘ever so’ – Bedtime here is a source of misery.”* And then you signed your name, Tiny, Small, Impossibly graceful, Just like yourself. You were always nasty When you missed me.
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Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
letter
(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning)                                         Arrogant Book Soldier Conceited Con Artist Covetous Cunning Deceitful Disingenuous Egoist Egregious Envious Entitled                                         Evil Haughty Hypocritical Ignominious Immoral Jealous Jumped Up Machiavellian Martinet Mendacious Nit Picky                                         Obsessed Peck Sniff Perfidious Persnickety Pompous Popinjay Predatory **** Rapacious Regimental Sanctimonious                                         Self Important Shylock Smarmy Sophist Supercilious Unctuous Unethical                                         Vile                                         Vicious                                         Zealot        ljm
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Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
HOW DO I DESCRIBE THEE; LET ME COUNT THE NAMES
I know you’re no prince, I know you’re no masked hero; I know you’re an *** a **** a ***** I know, you admitted you were. I told you, one day, You would break my heart, I told you, one day, You would make me cry. And yet I hoped you would keep your word - Oh God those words – Trust and hope despite all my words; Despite my deep-down protective words: You deceived me! All you said were words, They meant nothing! You asked me to believe And I did, I asked you to stay And you left, And I died – No! Not die I live.
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Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
Words of Wisdom
When I make hot 'n sour soup, I like to add a little ground **** as a finishing spice.
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Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
When I make hot 'n sour soup
Am just an ordinary man, whose lows bring down your highs a true man of soil, who was trained that sorry is an expensive word a **** of life, a novice in matters of heart and feelings. I acknowledge my faults and my crevices of character, all in all my pride rides me down hope that my dear wife you will understand. just as a kite tries  to fly without wind, I feel me disconnected from you as a flash of lightening so quiet without thunder, totally unreal. before you i thought my self complete, in my ignorance I felt okay now  you have come n am jolly, n my alphabet totally complete hope that my dear wife you know as days are growing red and grey, and the cares of life n pressure mount up if I appear distracted an unresponsive, giving monosyllabic answers n wearing a grim face, it's not you my sweet wonderful love am just dealing with the rawness of life n all that it might and has thrown at me hope that my dear wife now you know my hope is that long life n great health be the gift given us by Almighty an in my endeavors hope at least to meet your life long desires and in my fulfillment you shall find your contentment where every evening we shall celebrate with laughter n glowing of our hearts. in my hope I wishes that my dear wife our journey through life shall accord us more sweet memories
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Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
To dear wife
The thief, the usurper She rides through the black With her white robes And dusty, pale hair. She calls Minstrels and men, vagrants and virgins; Singing to them about light That is not her own With dulcet murmurs, lofty promises. Her children hide behind her Luminescent skin like moths Hiding from the blue nighttime- Mother!  They cry, their tears streaking Through the sky onto the Earth, Leaving behind iron and fire. This vagabond, she does not suckle them, For she is lightless, left with only A hard, round face Full of silence and fear Leaving men and me to reach for her, And she, she spins away. Umbridged is the king Who reigns bright beams upon those Living on the blue skin of his sister- Ah, his sister, a lady of green Dotted with poppy jems and violet jewels. She is forgotten when the larcenist shows Her hair.  Lost and lonely, it is made fair By the light of the king.   The pilferer is made to feel whole And beautiful.  The green lady, She is wrathful, spitting fire, spitting ice. Still the **** is unknown, Unknown to all the land And the lords and ladies that reap it, And the king whose crown stays lit And warm on his sister's rough face, And the Lady Green who curses and weeps For the capture of the thief that creeps Throughout the cold, cloudless night. A reward for any who can catch her, A knighthood for any to tame her. Unbeknownst to her admirers the damnable **** Is nothing more than a mere handmaiden For the Lady Green.  A lonely ***** Hidden away during the light of morn Til darkness descends and The royals' house is torn. May she continue to steal their precious Gold and eyes and praise and skies With her bright pale hair, Long when the day ceases to be. One day the king shall burn his sister, the blue ***** Freeing the lonely handmaiden forevermore.
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Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
Thief's Tale
The thief, the usurper She rides through the black With her white robes And dusty, pale hair. She calls Minstrels and men, vagrants and virgins; Singing to them about light That is not her own With dulcet murmurs, lofty promises. Her children hide behind her Luminescent skin like moths Hiding from the blue nighttime- Mother!  They cry, their tears streaking Through the sky onto the Earth, Leaving behind iron and fire. This vagabond, she does not suckle them, For she is lightless, left with only A hard, round face Full of silence and fear Leaving men and me to reach for her, And she, she spins away. Umbridged is the king Who reigns bright beams upon those Living on the blue skin of his sister- Ah, his sister, a lady of green Dotted with poppy jems and violet jewels. She is forgotten when the larcenist shows Her hair.  Lost and lonely, it is made fair By the light of the king.   The pilferer is made to feel whole And beautiful.  The green lady, She is wrathful, spitting fire, spitting ice. Still the **** is unknown, Unknown to all the land And the lords and ladies that reap it, And the king whose crown stays lit And warm on his sister's rough face, And the Lady Green who curses and weeps For the capture of the thief that creeps Throughout the cold, cloudless night. A reward for any who can catch her, A knighthood for any to tame her. Unbeknownst to her admirers the damnable **** Is nothing more than a mere handmaiden For the Lady Green.  A lonely ***** Hidden away during the light of morn Til darkness descends and The royals' house is torn. May she continue to steal their precious Gold and eyes and praise and skies With her bright pale hair, Long when the day ceases to be. One day the king shall burn his sister, the blue ***** Freeing the lonely handmaiden forevermore.
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54
(a lighter piece sup *** wit tree) 'm, oh yes mud hum, who hoop fully iz zaftig and/or mister Jack Rabbit, whoever wig gulls or crinkles their nose creating a lil whirligig at this bit of flummery unrig yule lated impossible to make cogent and/or tangential with trig perhaps best red after taking a swig of vintage carrot juice with a sprig of favorite herb, more'n enough to slake thirsting herd at the yearly Peter Rabbit shindig, which senseless literary rig ma roll even Bugs Bunny trump petting donned Taj Mahal swiftly tailored hare reed styled periwig, (would turnip his nose), button size or overbig, yet all Joe King aside, and please do not think me a **** excepting (Trix are for kids, eh...?) this intentional faux paw, an distress signal tis ideally geared for a Unitarian herbalist hook can transform this pro fessed human imposter, (who in truth got cursed as a **** sapien by Bunny Foo Foo with elan) particularly in the guise of Han nub bull the cannibal, (whose unisexual name Jan) also doubles up as my birth month dwells in Lan zing, Michigan, and earns keeps employed as a nan knee, yet experiences inner pan dumb moan he yum, (seized with grippe to dig in Farmer Brown's garden), and ran like the dickens all the way to Tran sill vane ya leaping across Atlantic Ocean forced to adopt the lifestyle of a Van dull with razor sharp buck teeth.
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Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Peaceful War'n For A Hare
I lost an eight year old, I don't know where He is but I'm pretty Sure he's gone For good, Thank God for that small mercy! He drove me mad Controlling my ****** life, Rude and selfish little **** Unbearable little **** I still have a hurting Babe in arms though, Weeping in his pain, But he is healing fast As I hold him to my heart And tell him from My adult self That it's okay now, He is much loved, And all will indeed Be well.
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Dec 28, 2023
Dec 28, 2023 at 3:35 AM UTC
Lost 8