"repast" poems
1567
The Heart has many Doors—
I can but knock—
For any sweet “Come in”
Impelled to hark—
Not saddened by repulse,
Repast to me
That somewhere, there exists,
Supremacy—
8.5k
The wood is stacked for winter.
One way out of the mind's limitations
is through other minds' contemplations.
The books are stacked for winter.
Yet even that cannot satisfy.
Failing to hold still for meditation
my teacher smiles, makes this observation:
The purpose of sitting's not to be satisfied
or satiated. Remain hungry,
cold, uncomfortable and counting enemies.
These, and fear, are our commonalities,
and the discipline of not hitting whenever angry.
You'll appreciate dying
quietly at home. Whichever season has been randomly assigned will be
beautiful as ever
as a molecule of water is to all matter.
"In my life there were always too many things."
If there is no time, only change
the linear becomes circular.
Do not say north or south. You're
within the winter range
of chickadees, hawks, owls and herons.
River grapes, rose hips, the cedar waxwings'
repast. Their talk is my reminding
change outlasts endurance.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
Do not eat of Faerie food
And do not drink of Faerie wine
Or when you leave Faerie at last
The home you seek's no longer thine.
Do not step in Faerie rings
Do not enter the Faerie Mound
Or when rescue comes for thee
Your sanity will ne'er be found.
Do not lie to Faerie folk
And don't insult the Faerie Queen
Or for all of eternity
You and yours will not be seen.
Do not enter Faerie woods
And do not walk the Faerie trod
Or, though you come back to hearth,
Your heart will ne'er again be thawed.
Don't listen when Faeries sing
And ignore the Banshee wail
Or you will have the dubious fame
Of becoming a Faerie tale.
Do not look through Faerie stones
That you find on the Faerie ground
Or they will put out your eye
So you can't see when they're around.
Do not enter Faerieland
But if you do, don't leave the path
Or you'll be lost for ever more
In darkness where the monsters laugh.
Do not ask for Faerie help
If it comes take care how you pay
Some want clothes or milk for it
Some are insulted and betray.
Do not accept Faerie gold
From captured elf or leprechaun
For it will turn to moss and leaves
And when you look up they'll be gone.
Don't swim in the Faerie stream
Where nixies and kelpie play
Banshee wash dead men's ****** clothes
In that water, so stay away.
Do not believe what Faeries say
Though it's true that they cannot lie
They never say quite what they mean
Honestly they will truth deny.
Don't even taste Faerie repast
No goblin fruits from elven trees
They're addictive beyond belief
A wise man offered such food flees.
'Ware giving thanks for Faerie gifts
Though they save you from all pain
Or else you may be in their debt
And lose more than you stood to gain.
Beware lights off Faerie shores
And lanterns seen in wild bogs
For wisps will lead folks off of cliffs
And laugh as corpses float like logs.
And buy naught from Faerie markets
They sell goblin fruits, curses, lies
The price your dreams, your past, your soul
Your voice, the color of your eyes.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
The steak tartare had painted toenails
And manicured hands of polished silk;
Mouth with apple, daintily wedged,
Floating in a bath of milk.
I helped myself to a silky ****
Sliced across it's still-pink grain,
Seasoned with a squirt of lemon
And coarse ground pepper, for a tang.
The seasoned broth was the finest gravy
To moisten the neat cuts of meat,
And sweetened fat, in a frothy pie
Ended the repast, with a treat.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
*we are witness to atrocities
committed by regime
over its peoples
over time*
1.
we are witness..
shattering glass of reality arranged into chosen shard-feeds
like omni-gov surveillance into meticulous mind-grafts
spluttering eternal-stats for public mind control
spewing mini-truths of perpetual war raids
disillusionment of history forever rewritten
control supply-and-demand
create dark-cloaked dilemma and monitor shortage and famine
make-believe elements so well played to auto-frenzied latch
thinking is degraded and actions.. well, less said
2.
diligent and loyal yet harbour secret-hatred
feed visions stilted by politrix
deception and manipulation
propaganda is the oleaginous-game by wand-over-mind
totalitarian is the kingpin-holder of cards
and yet, who is really being played!
eternal marionettes on a conveyor-belt
can't even play with yourself alone
your **** your **** your every move..
watched - surveyed - and studied
by that ubiquitous-bulge eye you cannot escape
right opposite your low hard-bed
you're broken into popping-parts
that YOU won't recognise!
thoughtcrime-police is gonna accost ya
get up, comrade.. get UUUUUUUUP!
3.
we are witness
life-tube covered in darkened vapour-swirls
we are witness
children conditioned to watch their parents.. too closely
we are witness
truth so smothered, now re-fed by repeat-metaphor
we are witness
dictata.. dictata..
we are witness
austere existence in a tacky one-room flat
we are witness
subsist on black-wheat and imitation-repast
we are witness
regurgitate the party-dialect on and on and on
(after a while, we end up half-believing.. )
*only the clock which strikes thirteen
can smell the charred-reality
as leftover-truth is shoved
into incendiary obsolescence*
tick-a-damn-tock
and that would be..
one
S T - 26 sept
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
My love, my lover, my life.
Tall, beared, hued and mysterious.
I realized he was mysterious since he only lives in the frontal lobe of my mind.
There I anxiously wait for his kiss.
Is it crazy to think that a bond so strong will ever exist?
I sure hope he does!
I am frantically in love with him.
This man unknown who has not found me as of yet.
I have seen glimpses of him, here and there.
With long observation that never compare!
I wait, again.
Full of emotions.
With tears, fears and deep long sighs.
I reassure myself that my love, so simple, and true, is near.
May 4, 2025
May 4, 2025 at 3:45 PM UTC
Ach so! thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!
And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!
Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.
Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.
‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.
From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
Enraptured by the senses heightened,
Sight stolen by blindfold,
Mobility hindered by bands of silk,
Forced into placidity by restraints.
Blinded abruptly,
Aural faculty's amplified by the loss.
Still, I hear nothing.
Silence so thick it's tangible,
Heavy, weighed down by an anxious nervousness,
Attuned to very vibrations permeating the atmosphere,
Breathing in sync with the pulse of my blood,
Harsh and quick,
Thunderous in the stillness of this contemporary plane.
I'm almost afraid.
Fear exacerbated by acute vulnerability,
Naked to criticism, to contempt, to desecration.
Offered as repast,
Meal to sate invisible mouth,
Chocolate sin to tantalize his tongue,
Displayed and arranged for his feast.
I long to be free.
Wavering between the excitement begotten by thrill,
And a desperate need to escape,
I hang. With nothing to ground me.
Held aloft at another's will.
I long to be free...
Don't I?
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
1709
With sweetness unabated
Informed the hour had come
With no remiss of triumph
The autumn started home
Her home to be with Nature
As competition done
By influential kinsmen
Invited to return—
In supplements of Purple
An adequate repast
In heavenly reviewing
Her residue be past—
2.2k
Fish heads for dessert
Confetti-saltwater taffy for lunch
Canned laughter for snack
And peptide bonds for a well balanced breakfast
"But whats for dinner?" says The Windbag
"But whats for dinner?!" screeches The Mimick
Hmm, well we have a choice between the sociocultural criteria and a toxic relationship
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?" asked the Windbag
"Can't we have popsicles with answer-less riddles on the sticks?!" copied The Mimick
"Leeme alone!" cried the Windbag
"Leeme alone!!" yelled The Mimick
In the end the decided to eat the pockmarks of bird feeding cohorts
They picked their teeth with proven points
Then watched The Windbag play the glockenspiel
Followed by The Mimick on the xylophone
As I put the leftover scraps in Tupperware, making sure to burp it before I put it away
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
soil within your loam
a harvest of food you hold
our table you furnish
we're grateful to you
for the bounty you provide
elements of grace
praise be to the soil
we've eaten of daily bread
a repast you gave
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Blood Orange Marmalade and Wild Blossom Honey
(a love song)
summer treats, sure,
but not of what we come to sing
no,
this a love story sung,
all about
a Sunday afternoon BBQ...
she knows I don't sleep,
cause I'm never there
when she awakens,
her worry~not~words don't soothe, sorry,
when ears are clogged
by fright and worry
so she does what
a woman does,
cooks me a meal
to soothe the
intemperate noises buried in the soil,
haunting this old soul
now on the downlo downward curve,
who wonders how
he got himself
into another
Laurel and Hardy^
fine mess...
so she will slide me into happy,
BBQ sliders will stop
the blood flow to a brain
that has not rested once all year,
she shops old fashion style,
wild blossom honey from Germany,
blood orange marmalade from where
I don't know,
to sweeten the barbie sauce,
her living loving way
(I add my salt tears right about here)
if this is not a love song,
then what is?
my ooh's exceeded by only my aah's,
music for her hearing,
far better than my poetry forlorn,
demonstrate my pleasure
bite by bite, giving her,
my love's loves delights
for she cooks love
and I write love poems
that won't be sung,
but nonetheless,
will be our shared repast
and banish temporarily all the
subterfuge gloom on a
blue green summer Sunday afternoon
if this is not a love song,
then what is?
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout
my salivary will weep
in effortless anticipation
of jubilant mastication
of the flora and fauna
of my own culinary killing fields
that allow me
a few more waltzes
in this soundless song of air
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
You may feel about the planet what
you feel about a great baseball team or band:
that once there was a moment when, unknown
to us at the time, we convened
and lost and found ourselves in what we created.
Who should I thank for this day?
A fresh-mown lawn is a robin's repast.
A bear a black bear a rolling delicately dancing
graceful as silence sailing through the ferns and understory
unafraid and in no hurry.
My musician referral service, vacation rental business,
nonprofit management system, plant identification database,
great American songbook and anthology of poems. Coach says
in a thousand years back and forth games like lacrosse and soccer
will be played against genetically engineered primates
but baseball will be played solely by humans.
In a thousand years, amen.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
She was a lovely looking thing,
A beautiful young blonde girl/woman
She hadn't been with us long... at
work
She was smart and sassy, even a little
scary
Held strong opinions on some things,
She lived close to where I lived, only
a few miles away
So I was sitting amongst them one
day, the girls/the ladies
They were a little bored that day and
for some sport
Were trying to draw me out, to get me
to open up a little
To reveal some more about my ways
and my life
So I thought I'd have some fun with
them
I told them I did some painting as a
hobby
And that my speciality was 'the
female Nude'
But alas! I had a problem, I had no
one to sit for me
"If only I had some beautiful nymph, some haughty Queen, some dazzling princess", I lamented
And then I'd gaze over at Her, give her
a longing look,
Then of course, someone upped and
said the obvious
" Jen....don't you live close to where he lives, would you not go sit for him "
My face it lit up and I smiled
"No! I would not!!! she said
emphatically, disgusted
Now I knew from the Christmas party
she liked to drink Gin
So I said enticingly "I'll throw in a
few bottles of Gin"
"I'd never pose **** for anyone", she replied again emphatically, "it'd be embarrassing, it'd be degrading! Sitting naked before some man!",
" But ", I replied, " you wouldn't be embarrassed sitting for me
'Cos when I paint a **** I insist on
being in the **** myself as well
So as to make my Sitter feel more at
home, more at ease
Yeah, Me! I'm very... Avant Garde"
(said with a devilish twinkle in my eye)
Still she resisted my painterly
charms
So as to further entice her I said
"I'll even cook you breakfast, no one can resist my lovely sizzling sausages".
I felt as though I'd dangled my carrot
right in her face
But still she wouldn't take the bait.
I suppose I was lucky she hadn't for if
she had of (agreed)
I would have had to have learnt how
to paint Nudes real fast
And how to cook sausages and other
breakfast repast.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 9:38 AM UTC
**
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
1.7k
You sleep in a golden box, it seems,
On India patterns of rose and tangerine.
The brightening sky sends amber light
Through ecru lace and lowered blinds.
I imagine your lithe limbs stretched out
Beneath the coarse blanket you love.
Your rustic side has always shied
Away from luxury and ease.
Sometimes you even refuse to eat,
So I tempt you with a favorite repast
Things meant to break unwarranted fast.
And often, I ask you to show me
Your lean limbs and boyish length.
As you poise upon the scale
That balances youth and strength.
But at night you leave our tryst
And drive a phaeton of amethyst
To a place no longer gold,
Where you make diamonds out of coal.
Where they drain you 'til day is dawning
And batter down your soul.
Yet it seems you revive each morning
In your pretty box of gold.
July, 2021
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 11:57 AM UTC
i
Damsel in distress, open thine soul to me, open thine chest
Colleen of medieval lace, of darling face, I'll taketh thee now;
Yet how canst I taketh one? If none is around, Talitha cuna ghost
I seeketh even thine smoke, wherever thou art, mine spirit waits.
ii
A repast banquet awaiteth for one, a table sitteth here, chairs for two; two chairs as I sitteth and eateth alone, the plàtes art full, though none amour' to tryeth the desert, none next to me for the fruit punch of thirst. Only me staring at an empty blank wall.
iii
Now mine eye's do crawl, searching the hearkening clearance
None was ever here, just signs of emptiness, and mine own disappearance, as at that moment, when the fine dinner was set; mine heart fluttered backwards, being alone, mine spirit left.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
There’s a horse in my backyard,
Most magnificent to regard,
Black his colour, long his mane
Upon his shoulder tangling down.
Jet coat shines and muscles ripple
As he rears and prances danger.
He’s a stallion, powerfully built.
His name is Anger.
There’s another little pony,
Very lovable is this one.
Bright and sunny is her nature,
White and gold her bristling colour.
As everybody’s favourite choice,
She works the long, extended hours,
But overworked, she has a voice!
She is Compassion.
Next, the pinto comes for breakfast,
Trotting sweetly to the repast,
Tough and wiry, head tossed gaily,
Snorting, stamping, propping daily,
He’s the one with his own mind,
Hard mouth, slow to understand
What is needed tags behind.
He’s called Willpower.
Can’t leave out the lovely racer,
Chestnut, and the red lights lace her!
Most eye-catching, charged, and ready,
Whipping round upon a penny,
Found where other horses run,
She’ll toss you off if she thinks she can,
Ever dancing in the sun.
Dependency.
There are many steeds at stable
In my backyard. I am able
To learn to manage every one
Under tuition of the Son.
Jealousy, Envy, Hope and Fear
Are some of the others that I hold dear.
Each has its place and each its task
And each its sting.
For the rider who is highly skilled,
And has his mounts all daily drilled,
Will play life’s game of polo well.
His coach will keep him on the ball.
And every horse will become his friend,
Learn good manners, when to stretch,
When to pull and twist and send
The ball to goal!
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
mark of cain in my hemoglobin, i'm more open to repast on brains.
to dine on flesh enmeshed in baseball parks and homes restrained
by greed of the same. and the cry of the people takes great pains
to refine the message of a blank stare. a blemish, stark with catacombs
disarranged in harm honey. the ogre of pine. the amber pane
where we bleed. we name nameless, by the by,
to the finish.
but not
alone.
up your petticoat with my blind cleaver. my Occam razor to your stain.
a fine mess express in hateful art and boneless jade
we feed on the frame of our reference. skylarking harmonious curves dismayed
by their own mind. they confess it. at the statefair. replenished, they knish in falderal
disengaged from honesty. the poker blind. where the eye staid.
where we need. we need most ... tell ya why.....
to diminish
but not
atone.
and so it goes. i erode the continent. sneaky pete in the crease of all strange.
itchy feet. maimed in false lies of the ripple. made fake
to real love. unclaimed. a gangly part of broken promises made
we retreat at last. with our last mimes. we undress. with savoir faire. distinguished in our dashery
ill fated. calamity's bark. hard to define. where the mind misbehaved.
we're complete most where the hole resides...
to imprison
but not
hold.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
"Are the gods angry?"
she said with a laugh
as Vesuvius rumbled
with warnings advance.
I cuffed her behind,
but gently, and laughed:
"Lady bring me more wine
for my morning repast."
I had sup'd with old Pliny
just the evening before.
Admiral of the fleet
anchored safely offshore.
My vineyards are fruitful,
a source of fine wines.
and the olives, when pressed,
make a spread that's divine.
My Villa is handsome,
and I own many slaves.
so you see I've no use
for their Jesus who saves.
The top of the mountain
disappeared in a blast
Our homes are laid siege to
with pumice and ash.
The women are screaming
I hear a child cry.
I hear prayers vainly offered
to an uncaring sky.
The air is quite thick
My lungs are oppressed.
My Villa is burning
along with the rest.
With a cloth on my mouth,
I race to the shore,
hoping, dear Pliny,
to see you once more.
I look on with horror
as burning stone blocks my path
I crouch by a wall
as my last moments pass.
* * * * *
The Archeologist tutted
"Well, who have we here?
"Clearly no slave
from this ring it appears."
" I am Lucius Flavius."
My Lemure would remind.
but I'm like a statue
and mute for all time.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
at a round table a regal man sat
he of finest epicurean palate
neath his feet twas a lowly rat
no junk food twas on his plate
only the best in culinary serves
he of finest epicurean palate
the rat ate of a crumb's conserve
which twas more telling of his position
only the best in culinary serve
the king feasted on grand nutrition
he became more bloated of tummy
which twas more telling of his position
after he partook of all so yummy
the poor rat twas left in starvation
he became more bloated of tummy
for he'd have no repast of salvation
the poor rodent twas left in starvation
at a round table a regal man sat
neath his feet twas a lowly rat
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC