"roster" poems
Gliding deftly along the city street
rolling quick and constantly
onward to some unknown scene,
some backward park in the nighttime
smoke curling from these
parted lips, moist and inviting
calling me somewhere I've never seen.
New day, new night
new feelings, rage in delight
fill me with your hilarious entropy,
knock my quarks into the next century,
will you please?
Now you're smoking the pipe and all at once you are free
between you and me, this smoke is thicker and sticks
like glue,
wispy and dreamy and the world spins and calls Toltec
telephone company can't pay me for all those calls collected
and rendered obsolete
Sun god dead as that silly calendar meme
Amaterasu,
and Imma tell you
these ladies in the picnic table
buried alive for boxed lunch and god's brunch
Jesus ******* Christ
and a indelible roster of good guys,
to which we all must strive to live and die
behind,
never moving forward
chasing our tails like a sick dog
under the jasmine runner between the decades-old tanbark
imported from overseas
dead trees
dead canine
and oh isn't it just divine?
You see it, pretty lady.
I can see it hiding behind your eyes
the things you don't tell the others because you're afraid
if they found out,
you'd be crucified.
Well honey I hate to inform,
With KGB efficiency that these love-a-dumbs
aint Methuselah,
they'll be dead!
long before your flood of tears tears me from the land
ballistas me across the great expanse to some strange Ararat
of the eastern seaboard,
or maybe wash me deep along the 80
into the desert sands and tiles
on a leaky cell phone screen
desperately trying to dial home on low battery,
realizing all this was one big deferred dream,
baking in the sun and shriveling
oh well, back to the grindstone-- all those lies plucked your nose,
gotta cut it back to size,
'else your soul it'll outgrow
Don't worry honey bee
It hasn't happened to me,
and We know with calcuable mathematical truth
that it'll never happen to you.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Why is it so difficult to leave my life alone
Cast that last stone
I feel like Frankenstein the monster
And your a mob of angry county officials
Getting high on locking away my roster
Big Man you are with you excess of power
Targeting helpless youth
Who only aim to survive
To escape imprisonment alive
To everyday simply strive
For some acceptance
To be be beat down literally abused by your hand
Because our hunger over took morals
What is right
Is right being cold and hungry every night
Is right being forced into institutions
You've already chosen my life's conclusion
My dreams depict my happy illusion
Our financial status fusion
Causing an eruption of misguided confusion
I'll win this war
When when it seems every battle I'm losing
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
I keep collecting books I know
I'll never, never read;
My wife and daughter tell me so,
And yet I never head.
"Please make me," says some wistful tome,
"A wee bit of yourself."
And so I take my treasure home,
And tuck it in a shelf.
And now my very shelves complain;
They jam and over-spill.
They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?"
"some day," I say, "I will."
So book by book they plead and sigh;
I pick and dip and scan;
Then put them back, distrest that I
Am such a busy man.
Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne,
my Gibbon and Defoe;
To savour Swift I'll never learn,
Montaigne I may not know.
On Bacon I will never sup,
For Shakespeare I've no time;
Because I'm busy making up
These jingly bits of rhyme.
Chekov is caviare to me,
While Stendhal makes me snore;
Poor Proust is not my cup of tea,
And Balzac is a bore.
I have their books, I love their names,
And yet alas! they head,
With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James,
My Roster of Unread.
I think it would be very well
If I commit a crime,
And get put in a prison cell
And not allowed to rhyme;
Yet given all these worthy books
According to my need,
I now caress with loving looks,
But never, never read.
3k
Eighteen, a number rattled off a ticket,
Eighteen, the number of days I have left
Eighteen days to make a decision.
Eight plus one equals seven.
Seven, the year before my innocence was taken again.
Eight minus one equals six.
Six, the year of therapy for my traumaized mind.
Eighteen years in Eighteen days in Eighteen hours I have.
I have on a roster, I have in my head.
Oh dear one, will I be dead?
Fallen from the cradle the baby do fall.
She tumbled and cried and death was the end result.
I too am the baby never to grow up.
Eighteen days until my cradle will fall and I will cry.
When in life is this decision made?
Decision of the mind to place action to body?
Tumble bumble, falling little baby.
Eighteen days, the time I have left.
Eighteen years, a deadline I can't procrastinate.
Eighteen lifetimes,
Eighteen.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
The bench
Supporting cast
Men of few talents
The star watchers
Few know their names
"No skill", they say
Trading tokens in the money game
Roster holders for the next star
Only put in to give others rest
Pass the ball, set the pick, take a flop
Help the star look good, give him a chance
Never to take the ball and make the shot
Unknown, Unsung, Underrated
Until the big play
The highlight reel
The game winner
ESPN's fifteen minutes of fame
Talk of the town
The hero
Until the next game
Then it's the back to normal
Sitting on the bench
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
Why did you have to write to me.
Pretending that you cared.
Why did you have to write after months of showing me you never cared.
That letter was absolute ********
I loved you more than never! And you write me with smug comments and a distant attitude.
The truth is what matters and I left you because you became a liar.
Always and never, **** you.
What a horrible thing to say to someone who never did anything wrong but try to love you past the pain you inflicted over and over again.
You will always end up alone because you are to blind and ignorant to realize you are the true reason to your own destruction.
Another failed relationship, one right after the other.
Now you can go ahead an add failed marriage to your roster.
You never loved anything in your life, and that is the real sadness.
One day in the distant future you will be old and alone and you'll have no one to blame but yourself.
That letter you wrote me was pure nonsense because you're still a child blaming me when you've destroyed the only real person in your life that ever truly loved you, looked past everything you did and tried to help you beyond her own pain.
That is real love I stayed for all the right reasons even though you failed to ever provide me with one.
I'm so ashamed I ever loved someone like you.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....
She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!
She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.
And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.
Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!
Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!
There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 4:38 PM UTC
Illusions and spell casters,
tyarants and nobles.
Thats the roster.
Gifted fellows hidden in ghettos
and men who can fly
go about their regular business.
Meanwhile, professors light off their toy rockets.
The missiles fling beautiful con trails across the sky and
drop John Doe off at the moon.
Monsters still hide in shadows
and eagles still die.
*But don't you worry your tired soul,
because change is coming.*
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
(In Memory of Miss Araceli M. Katigbak, TMA’s Miss Grammar)
You taught us
to talk and write head up high
in a tongue to foster,
that is not our mother
The scroll of rules
and the roster of exceptions
you’ve mastered
and you made us master,
patiently you nurtured
the timid buds
diligently you challenged us
daily, and your voice
still reverberates –
Correct practice makes perfect!
Beyond subject-predicate agreements
Your treasured grammar lessons
taught the young at heart,
the malleable minds:
Every man or every woman is
but
Men or women are,
regardless or irrespective
of beginnings,
required to know:
1. There are rules to be followed.
- and we expanded this to our lives,
and not just our paragraphs and sentences
2. There are exceptions to be considered.
- and you indirectly taught us,
to recognize differences
and that difficulties of the English language
are just like people’s frailties
and our friends’ idiosyncracies
3. Mastering grammar is good
but honesty is the best!
And thus, your lessons most precious
are far above your prim and proper dress and shoes
and your gospels of correct usage, syntax and other linguistic gems
delivered good citizenship and how-to-be-a-good-friend items.
The Good English we learned are words to live by
You’ve given us treasures no money can buy.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
In the mornings I stayed in the blue, carpeted room.
My Cello played the best friend, while I played upon its bare back.
The halls sat silent there.
The walls, bear aside from the occasional music note half sticky-tacked to the white cement, only emphasized my isolation.
They hung yellowed from UV light, and their own forgotten presence.
After the day slipped by,
Through Stephen King book pages
And colored comics,
Through love notes scraped into wooden tables,
And the ring of my own repose draped upon me by scrambled, and passing conversation
I would make my way to the baseball field.
5’4” and nearing 200 pounds
My ardor was never withheld even in the face of exclusion.
I tried for the team
But when the roster ruffled in the fading sun behind the bleachers
I made myself a part of where I was not welcome.
I loved the team
Even as snide comments slithered
Through the teeth of passing players,
Even as the coach spat not a centimeter above the toe of my white, worn tennis shoes
I came day in and day out
If not to catch the practice ***** then the occasional smile of young girl—a pitying young girl, but a smile nonetheless.
The life bodes loneliness,
But to me it presents possibility.
Never doubt the adequacy of introversion.
The quiet mouth begets the much more boisterous mind.
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
Stephanie on the stereo
with Sophia ******
stains on the sheets
I still don't know your name is
what?
Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
K dot
G dot
com
But there are cookies
on the paper.
Wipe up the crumbs
I thought cookies were coming
Well check you receipts.
Got a lawyer?
Got a broker?
Erik
Eruch
uh
How do you spell it?
Timothy
or timmy
No, not tommy
I'm Tim.
Sacrificing monsters, I started
as him. It. Clown. Bonkers.
Check the roster I'm no mobster. Lawless.
Flawless i'm not.
Scars on this and that
knee.
Broken shoulder I'm holding in my *** you.
S. S. Mathematical difference.
Its a distance but I will be there
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
depressing cities.
depressing jobs.
depressing train stations.
depressing streets.
depressing homes, houses.
depressing people.
depressing lives, souls.
depressing cover-ups,
lies and fake smiles.
depressing body composures.
depressing malnourished
street children, stray dogs and bums.
depressing skies.
depressing movies.
depressing books.
depressing stories.
depressing music.
depressing real life stories.
depressed writers, artists,
working class heroes, soldiers,
students, mothers, fathers, cousins, brothers, uncles, sisters, priests, pastors and sewer rats.
life doesn't do much.
problems, shades, nostalgic memories that you never thought
you have.
you can choose to be happy,
but the world will remain
the same;
you may choose the lifeless path,
and the world will show you its true colors.
death brings us closer to one another. . .
if it's not our own.
you can have many friends,
as many as you want;
the perfect roster for your funeral
the world remains the same,
but you can choose any color
you want to paint it,
but the world remains the same.
the rats in the sewers knows
this too well.
they only know one color.
one place.
one same foul smell that never gets bad or good.
rats are immuned to depression.
some humans turn into rats
but the world remains the same.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.
a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/
another decade / chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet
here I am, a spectacle,
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.
can I trust myself. to dive in. for / by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 9:07 PM UTC
Roosters on roster,
words for goodwill associated.
Fortune tellers to alter
the fate of a deep fried miserable one
and make it again a flying creature.
That will eventually amaze
ordinary people like me if not a lot.
The monkey could have climbed higher
I am afraid rest of the roosters will crow
no matter whom the crocodile will bite next
with tears. This little prayer
goes to those victims lookalike
for swimming longer in the bigpond
of rumours for sake of
whatever.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 6:45 PM UTC
I am from willow trees and Black Eyed Susan's
From pealed wallpaper bedroom walls and Barbie Dolls
I am from small night lights and late night terrors
From Shepard's Pie and yellow American Cheese
I am from the Victorian grey and half green painted house on a four cornered road.
From T.V. tag with my brothers and cousins.
From Veronica, my only day care friend.
I am from Disney movies and The Wiggles.
From The Game Of Life and Spyro
From baby sized microwaved pizzas and slumber parties at Grandmas
I am from my Grandmother silver roster hair
Her eagerness to make everyone happy, and her thoughtfulness.
From field hockey games and fudgesicle’s
I’m from every possible place in my dreams and reality.
From not knowing what will come next.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
*Time wrapped in blanket of eternity
Spectator to so many events diurnally
Chronicled in the roster, every detail
Aware of all the future episodes
Holds the answers to forthcoming trials
Time will decide the outcome of actions
Testimony to history of this celestial body*
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
Clock's gone forward,
keep a sharp eye on
farmer May's roster.
Brexit a hole in the
foul house fence
while the birds sleep.
A back bencher won't
be missed, be out of
there before Ber Crows!
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:22 AM UTC
Weak is my will
Missing is my skill
Aim not straight enough to ****
I'm a wounded animal with a dangerous bite
No where to hide I must fight
Backed into a corner, what a sight
Better watch out I've gone feral, I've gone madd
I've lost what little sanity I had
To the marrow, to the core, my souls gone bad
Talking to a God that's gone MIA
He never listened anyway
That why I stoped, now I never pray
Been driven over the edge with all the pain
Now agony is what reigns
I'm tired of this ****** up game
I'm sick of a life that fosters
Only Demons in my roster
With my mask, I feel like an impostor
So this skin I'm gonna slice right through
I'll pay my dues
I'll leave a blood stained hue
Then I'll slink back from where I came
Heaven or Hell it's all the same
They both play the same vicious game
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Please retain this document as proof of your induction.
you are an inductee,
part of the tinkering crew,
high giving, high fiving
globally is your locally!
we know where you live,
Google mapped and sleep kid-napped from under that
shady radiata pine tree
more than sufficient,
your poetic revelations,
to know the you and the where-hereabouts of the
lives you handle with
wondrous word-care.
care taken, if you want hide deep,
but to late for thee and our world,
your name on the roster
of poets by night,
tinkers, soldiers, and some who tailor
poems bespoke for the ones who
dare not reveal their true (s)elves
in the words they write.
but you do.
so the
ticK tocK
(never forgot the Special K)
of your clock
synchro us
so too late,
we can call you anonymous,
if that be your preferential suffice,
If that makes you happy.
but what we need to know,
already planted by you,
in our soiled heart,
growing steadily cotton-higher.
When you are ready,
you will dispense with
your leafy nom de plume,
tell us what we don't need to know,
tell us what we already knew,
three boxes checked,
you are
poet, wife and mother,
suffice suffice suffice
the three stripes thrice
sewn on your skin,
inductee into the army of the
fly-by-night,
word~tinkers
guess you can say,
you are a tacker now,
tacked onto this crew,
watching over its
individuals,
therefore, say no more,
but write
a poem a day,
that, your tinkering dues.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
In the lore of leaves always Woman
Moon light & sorcery combs
Mysterious desire
As transparent cities in my ribs make roots
Scrimshaw jumble the sky and earth with mysterious kiss
Ah, the self-fulfilling prophecy of griffon.
Often i have felt griffon
Within me as i read the curves of Woman
Chanting spells and writing the stars within my kiss
my lips form letters on your corners and combs
the dark roster of remainder roots
Within the potent growth of uncontainable desire.
Dark is the unspoken desire
That within me shapes a griffon
Talons and the roar uniform of its roots
Weird talents of Woman
Release the door closed in me as you comb
the tresses & the navel that moon envy in its monthly kiss
Delicious kiss
Stir desire
Release the magic fur with combs
Transform the inward griffon
Come closer Woman
The tree must spread its roots
Dark are omens of roots
Within the bedchamber there is only kiss
luminous nefarious Woman
i am appalling in my desire
Transforms me into monstrous word, griffon
no flesh but shadows within the combs
Unfathomable combs
Intoxicating roots
the midnight eruption of griffon
my beak kiss
with hybrid desire
such monstrous cage is the comely love of Woman
She combs and polymorphs with a kiss
now only roots the shapely diagrams of desire
as a griffon sprouts feathers is bound to charms of sky clad Woman
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
And the journey begins
From the land of 10,000 10,000 mile high clouds
Drenching jungles and shores of ancient coral gardens
Long since harvested from the sea
Where they plant the love of their country in foreigners row by row by row
Where bananas resemble mashed potatoes and are served with onions
Where people can name the entire Yankees roster and have never kicked a soccerball
And yes my feet are tired
Because flip flops, like the government, offer little support
And who knows when I'll get the last grain of sand out of my hair
Or when the ringing in my ears from trumpet blasts will finally fade
Or the taste of unavoidably ingested bug spray will finally stop burning the back of my throat
my speedo tan lines will likely be the first to go
But all the myriad lessons internalized (read: only spray yourself with bugspray out doors)
All the friends friended with zero electronic interference (like the turtle hatchling I held or the man who volunteers years of his life protecting them for results that likely won't be seen in his lifetime)
Will live inside me forever
For, ever will my journey continue
Until we meet
And I can share them all with you
We can feast on them together
And they can maybe one day help you grow
like a mangrove tree
and harbor ideas of love in your roots like baby fish
And maybe if you're lucky, even taste the bug spray for yourself
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Escape
a roundel by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.
Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.
**********
Original text:
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.
Sin I fro love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am fre, I counte him not a bene.
Explicit.
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 5:08 AM UTC
Sometimes I forget that I'm the owner of my body
and I'm not just housesitting until the person whose home it really is gets back from vacation.
Thankfully whoever lives here always leaves me a roster that includes a list of the people in her life
so I don't embarrass her with my social ignorance.
Yesterday, she left me with the person she had labeled as "boyfriend" in her reference contact list.
And even though I didn't recognize him as mine,
when I stole glances for intel purposes,
I felt this surge of emotion
like she had left the electricity running in the room she dedicated to him.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
See, once many moons ago,
by a single solit'ry sun,
I met a cat nominated Liam,
and above him was his thumb,
Twas a good thumb,
twas the best thumb,
unspun the skin cells were silkest
and yet, when reassembled,
not that ilk. It's (Whaaaaaat?)
She was a tough and callous blemish
that he'd relish, totally cherish
'till he'd perish, (not embellished
tales true, but tails lie)
and Lasquisha for all her balance
and her posture
all her talents
Gideon knot who'll accost ya, with her roster's
Fox'd-ya-got-cha talons
(oooooooooooooooooooo)
This Liam was a good old cat
a tabby cat, not big and black,
but orange, mangy, super slack
deranged, estranged and caged in slack
with slipper feet, and coddled back,
he sat in chair that lazy sack
and when the doorbell called his track
he shirked the effort needed, whack!
Lashquisha, see, she was another
met our cat before this brother
Set her sights on not a smother
but, acknowledged rites of other.
So lashquisha with her sight so true
and thumb eluding tyrants skew
so set about to be anew
not thumb or (k)not, nor nails too,
and that was where I'd met these two
well first the cat and then the shoe
for sock was never needed, who
would hide themselves from their own view?
Lashquisha when I met that thumb
surprised not I by glove of fun
and *** and ***** layered un-
derneath the figure Liam strum.
See Liam knew his thumb so well
he knew the thumb twas not a shell
that caged the angry men that fell
to clipping when their partners tell.
For thumb a partner never is
unless like me you've ****** the quiz
and ended up a pointless shiv
in side of angry hornets nest.
And rest assured the thumbs annointed
given by their partners pointed
comments feeling slightly daunted
by need to act their best.
Attest they do the thumbs that chew
And unrest is left by plough and brew
But then again a thumb are you?
And me, and we, and I?
So tru....
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC