"stash" poems
I'll see what I can make
out of the leftovers I have.
Although, it's never too long
until the milk turns bad,
until a love turns sour
in an online second;
since, an online minute
wastes a real-life hour.
But in a snap-shot moment,
I can find life for weeks
on my stash of sugar truths,
until I forget to eat;
forget to breathe;
'til I don't even need to sleep
because the lovehearts on my photos
sing such soft melodies.
And despite the fact
that often I can't sit at ease,
somehow this perfect madness
always tastes so bittersweet.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 11:06 AM UTC
I broke up with McDonalds
On Valentine's day
People said she was no good for me
I had to get away
So I told her, It's not you,
It's just a phase I'm going through
But as we all know -
Dumping fast food is not a pleasant thing to do.
So I broke up with McDonalds, didn't see her for a while
Was doing pretty well - there was the occasional drunk-dial
When I walked up to the window
And I slipped into the queue -
But then I came back to my senses
And realised the thing to do...
Was to keep on walking
Keep on walking
Right past her
Ignore the temptation
To suckle
On those golden arches
Ignore those bed-like burgers
And those oh-so-easy fries
Divide our shared world up
And sever all ties!
Yes! I broke up with McDonalds and my life is better for it
When my girlfriend serves up rabbit food I simply adore it
I was scared of life alone with no kebab to walk me home
But...
What I once spent on burgers...
I now spend on...
Haribo!
Oh Haribo! Haribo!
You are a fruit tree in a sack
And although it feels wrong to see you
Behind my girlfriend's back
She can not be hurt by wrongs she does not know!
No - the new love of my life is Haribo, oh Haribo!
But then one evening after work
My girfriend came home early.
Caught me curled up on the couch
Soaking up her girly
DVDs
In front of me
A bowl of
Not nuts, nor seeds...
But fizzy, yes fizzy,
Cola bottles
That were
FIZZY!
How could you do this?
My girlfriend screamed at me.
Cannot you see the damage that they do-eth to your teeth?
(She'd been reading Shakespeare)
No, my eyes are on my face, I can't see in my mouth.
Right, she said, If you think I'm joking then I'm going to kick you out.
So she kicked me out the flat and that was that she said.
Not quite...
I grabbed my stash of Haribo from underneath the bed.
I told her all the things about her that I really hated
And the moral is:
Relationships with things that you can't eat are over-rated.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
Who Am I?
Well,
I must be
that ******
the one
in the black hoodie
***** sweatpants
and an uncombed eye,
that's always wooly
scratchy,
bloodshot
with searching for
my stash spot,
that ******
in your peripherals
that you keep your eye on
because he's
not
in a polo
looking nice,
talking
"well-spoken"
and
not
a threat
to your beautiful
lily-white daughter.
Because I grew up
fixing myself
ramen noodles
and
lifting the welcome mat
after school,
I must also be
that ******
whose father wasn't
in the same house
until he was age 13,
and when I tell you that,
you weren't expecting it
because "you're not a racist."
but
you weren't surprised.
You see,
I must be
that ******
a stand-in
for all other *******
I must be that ******
who represents
all *******
not because you are racist,
but because I'm the only
******
you've met
who doesn't talk like
dis, y'know whatmsayin,
and i talk like
this, do you know what I'm saying?
I must be that ******
In order for you
to feel okay
being around me
I must be that ******
who goes to college
does the right
thing
the white thing
and gets a job
a nice little house,
a nice black wife
with a nice
new england
clear
dialect,
(what I was
trying to get at
earlier
is that ****** dialects,
by their mere intonation,
denote stupidity,
right?)
and doesn't say a word
when his white friends
make ****** jokes
or talk in a ****** dialect
mocking some Aunt Jemima
they heard at Walmart.
But,
I also must be that ******
who doesn't step out of line
and say
"WHY IS IT
THAT IN EVERY SINGLE
ENGLISH CLASS
WE READ
ONLY
TWO
BLACK AUTHORS
A SEMESTER,
AND THAT'S
ENOUGH,
JUST ENOUGH
TO KEEP THE
****** PARENTS
HAPPY."
And If I happen to be a ******
I,
by all means,
must not be that ******
who had a white girlfriend,
and
this girlfriend
after dating
a ******
tried to date a white guy
she liked,
and when she told him
that she had dated,
loved,
and yes,
******
a ******
he had said back:
"I can't believe
you ****** a ******
Then again,
I must be that ******
with the big swinging ****
able to destroy
a white girl's ******
with its pulverizing
power.
And,
please,
If I am going to be a ******
don't be the one
who writes a poem
about
having to be
that ******
because those
kinds of *******
are being
over-sensitive,
those dashiki-wearing-motherfuckers
who think
"Da white man dis."
and "Da white man dat."
Because
I am not one of those *******
descended from the first people on earth,
your brother,
not in the ****** way,
but the familial,
species way.
Why am I even writing
this, ****** isn't a main operative
word anymore.
Search and find ******
and
replace with
"Black Guy." That way it becomes
a joke.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Money in the pocket of the biggest shareholder
Day by day, we grow older
Love is lost, hearts grow colder
So while you still can, you should hold her
Say what you feel, before you wish you'd told her
Don't stash your dreams away, in that folder
As you care less what they think, you'll get bolder
Listen to those, who need a shoulder
Let her live, don't try to mold her
Don't sell your soul, for something golder
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
Our family got the news today
Our bubba's gettin' hitched
Young Daisy Mae, she's near fourteen
Got our boy bewitched
He's sayin' that he loves her
He's making her his bride
She's the first to get him this close
Though not too many tried
We've got to get things ready
Send invitations and make candles
We've got to get the good jars out
The one's that still have handles
The minister is on alert
We've got to make some shine
Grandpa says he'll make some up
But, it will not all be mine
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
This time there'll be no shotgun
Like the last time for old Ben
This time the guns are empty
Not the way they were back then
The banjos will be tuned up
There'll be music in the air
The cops won't try to stop it
I think most will all be there
The ladies will be planning
Just how to serve up all the grub
While Bubba has to find a suit
And therein lies the rub
He's never worn a suit at all
Not even for a day
He's only dressed in coveralls
And that's how he's gonna stay
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
It'll be a **** dang doodle
A hell of a good time
It'll only be completed
When they run out of the shine
there'll be singing and some dancing
Underneath the harvest moon
We can't wait for it to happen
It cannot come too soon
There'll be readings from the bible
Which the minister will read
And as good holy Christians
Everyone will heed
There's sure to be some fighting
Before the couple say "I do"
I mean, they are both cousins
I'm gonna go...aren't you?
Gonna have a wedding, a real old fashioned bash
With all sorts of kissin cousins drinkin from their secret stash
The food will be impressive, there'll be turkey, pig and cow
The family won't get bigger, since we're related anyhow
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
people romanticize self-harm
as if it's nothing special
and really, no one is alarmed
everyone's stopped being careful
it's not just about the blood
it really eats your heart out
the suffering makes your head flood
and everything seems so loud
you can't just seek pitiful attention
saying "oh, look, i'm depressed"
you really do deserve a lecture
because the real deal would say so much less
cutting ruins your body
it also pierces your soul
you seek a friend or just anybody
but you always end up alone
the cup of coffee in the morning
is the only thing keeping you alive
the rest of the time you're crying
trying to get thoughts out of your mind
you've got a stash of blades
hiding under your bed
today your sister got engaged
and you might end up dead
you try to down twenty pills
with a chug of burning *****
maybe then you'd see flowery hills
but it's just likely to cause you trauma
you stare at your own blank wall
trying to find a slimmer of hope
and nobody's there to watch you fall
as you exit this life with some dope
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
"lie still and let it wash over you, the was and is and soon to be.
How frightening yet effervescent the next 24 hours. The lust, and musts of future days revert to the ancient past..."
patty m.
><
the irony!
when I am stilled,
the effervescence of me
unbounded, unleashed, and the torrential rain
of words fulfilling and departing from my interior
I am
a Grand Central Station
of trains labelled
"the was and is and soon to be''
all moving in an unscheduled mayhem,
but never crashing. never accidenting,
only accenting my racing against time,
my oldest and fiercest Super Villian,
and one just knows, never can you beat time,
time, that old rascally up his sleeve card magician,
who when shuffling the deck,
he knows
what was,
what is,
and here his red eyes gleam with satisfaction,
soon to be...
He and I,
old familiar adversaries
addicted to living.
never leave the table,
never leave a *** or
a poem on the felt,
and having always felt,
firm believed,
there will always be one more,
one more gamble, another day,
to write another poem
and turning my cards over
to reveal, to revel,
in my Royal Flush of creativity,
when time, smiling face,
with his
wild card,
**** time,
who trumps me for
it,
in possess of a Five-of-a-Kind(1)
~'
and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be
so ha!
nml
6:30am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
Choose **** Choose a dealer. Choose your rolling papers. Choose a **** Choose mind numbingly long conversations about **** all. Choose home grown. Choose frequent holidays to amsterdam. Choose red eyes. Choose the biggets pizza ever for when the munchies kick in. Choose paranoia. Choose chilling with mates. Choose hallucinating about a giant green hedgehog following you home. Choose watching Cheech and Chong. Choose skunk. Choose super skunk. Choose hiding your stash from the police. Choose spilling ***** **** water on your carpet. Choose a fake jamaican accent. Choose space cakes. Choose your future. Choose ****
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Your stars glimmers
Belching, wrenching
Exposing my ethnic aura
A tape of heavenly bliss
The acoustic rhythm
Essentially subliminal
Satiably insatiable
Tracked traces covered
Your tree branching out
Railing through my bark
My bosoms blossoming
Tip-toe to my bareness
Your entirely arousing
A summation of beauty
A firefly to enlighten
Encased within to liven
A body I hold twinkles
Whistle magnetic presence
Sprinkle my mind to entwine
Assign your soul peacefully
A might, a light at sight
A whole in me,a one in you
Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash
In dreamscapes and reality
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum
Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars
Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end
Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs
Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue
Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam
Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
I can't write...
I have a stash of twenty drafts, bearing a couple of lines each
I can't crack...
Every draft seem to have developed a shell I can't breach
I can't gather...
My thoughts so I could nurture these drafts to fruition
I can't think...
The clatter in my head meant only to deafen
I can't fathom...
What went right from what had gone completely awry
I can't find...
Much needed sanity to let soar and fly
I can't cry...
The tears I've beckoned for so very badly
I can't scream...
Only muffled gurgles of notions drowned at sea
I can't see...
The bigger picture...that consumed us both
I can't hear...
Except for the dreaded voice of reason that I loathe
I can't piece...
Together one decent little write
***I can't breathe...
I can't breathe...***I'm losing this fight
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
I am the flightless pelican.
I’ve found myself with my mouth full,
my stomach full, and so much still on my plate.
Possessed by an inhuman hunger,
I will gorge upon pure potential.
I will yowl on and on, without sleep.
-
I have sand between my toes.
My shoes are glued to my feet.
Keep on running ‘til the calluses come.
There has to be a point where I stop to sweat,
and I’ll finally get my sigh of relief.
I have one ride left on my bus pass.
-
I have a tendency to ramble
and languish in my own stench.
People tend to forget this at first;
lured in by the false face of a genetic fluke.
They want to know the impression I left,
not the procrastinator; the cud-chewing goat.
-
I can’t sleep being held,
or if I feel someone’s breath in the still.
I start to feel the urge to burrow
into the quiet quilts; patchwork Promised Land.
I cater to the crowd that caters to themselves,
but I’m no Utilitarian. Fox and Lion.
-
I have cousins like brothers,
and I have brothers like strangers.
Stray cats with names
and a copy of The Mahabharata that I stash my money in.
I’m sitting on a sunny pier with my hook in the water;
avoiding conflict with no bait.
-
Paper cuts from the gold leaf
on the edges of hymn book pages
with burgundy leather covers.
These guilty cuts, bleeding for what seems like hours,
while we steadily forget that anyone was singing.
Alone with our thoughts in the crowd.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Is burrowing a web
weaving a collection,
accumulating an anthology
For a far gone day
Stash them away
set them aside with a
what, when, why
rather than right
now ambitious zeal
discoverable.
findability.
Its the nature of the undertaking.
My minds an unavoidable reciprocal
Gratified by wasting time,
It’s just there filling space
Tucked away for a rainy day
In every nook and cranny
Tickling the fancy.
Affording a kind of intellectual gusto
that's borderline deplorable
accumulatively downright trifling.
Nonetheless,
even if it's unnecessary
I'll never get my fill
paper to hand typing away
uncovering all of life's mysteries
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
Extra Extra ...Read all about it!!!..The time for the righteous ***** is dead...You claim Your stature of limitations..But all you got is knowledge...Let me reconstruct the past...That the ones you preaching to don't see...Slavery...to share croppers.. to steal mill workers...Cotton pick en...to bootleg ‘en...to crack rock..slag ‘en...They got Aids from monkeys..So lets give it to all the monkeys..They know to much lets bury the smart ones under all the dummies...Rise up you righteous *** Shabazz..With more medals then Marcus Garvey...but this dispositions is thicker than the stash on Steve Harvey. Cuz the kids they love the Wiz...and all the green he smoke...Forget the yellow brick road...its these white bricks they see as Gold...But you so righteous with black power on Your bumper sticker...And so sweet that your water start to be thicker...then blood...with a hood that attack your own progression..You Been righteous for so long..with hope you feel depression..that you accuse your brother of mental retardation...urban gentrification...when he still live in the same house he did the year before...but you been moved to the east side on the top floor..You righteous *** ***** you been pronounced dead...back when them bombs hit over Bagdad...they waved the white flag..but you just made it easy...cuz you still so righteous...you done Got Fat, Turned Gay...and rallying for pride marches...Cuz you don’t know what else to do...your time is over..Them black cats use to be panthers, now you dress them up...and placed us all in a new minority...just to keep your righteous priority...Are You still looking East, or have you finally excepted the West..
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 1:02 PM UTC
In childhood, your father’s name is DAD
Now grown, maybe with children of your own
But his name is still DAD
DAD, the teacher, the consoler, the advisor
Admonishes: “Drive safe” and “Save your Money”
Today he’s the bard
“This is like prison,” DAD laments while rolling his eyes
Tubes like thin plastic chains tether his deflated body
to blinking panels; paintings (factory printed ones)
pretend the hospital room is more than just a sterile space
Today, DAD’s eyes cast a faraway gaze, projecting
And I see the characters in his story
I see the 10 year old boy he describes, who snuck to stash a set
Of English Composition Texts in the boy’s bathroom
To escape Mrs. McElroy’s Fourth Grade course in Morose Poetry
I see the thin, sandy blond, 6 foot 2 high school rabblerouser
Who broke into the Vice Principal’s old Fiat
And buried Stilton cheese in the dashboard
All done on a sweltering May school day
The anecdote is punctuated with a smirk and a: “Who would do a thing like that?”
Stories of when he spotted a shy brunette at the dance and knew
Knew he was to marry her;
Stories of when his own DAD grasped his infant grandson’s dimpled hand
Before giving in to complications of a heart attack
The bard stops and exhales a sigh
He cringes in his crinkled skin
Sunken eyes squeeze close “I’m sorry”
the nausea interrupts his tale “These drugs are…”
“It’s okay. Take your time” I console, trying to comfort the pain in the room
Now I’m the consoler, taking on the job to ameliorate
Now this man, vulnerable in his suffering, is no longer DAD
Now mortal, a child, a brother, a lover, a patient
A man chained by the body’s sickness
He is distilled by chemo
reduced to a soul, who, through affliction,
Forgets
As his children remember
He is as helpless in this life as we are.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
heavy traffic
so we stash ourselves in the publix parking lot
and watch the flashes of the departing thunderstorm
she lays out on the buicks hood in a bikini top
a bead of sweat kisses her bellybutton
her thick dreadlocks spread like ropes
i pick one up and stick it in her ear
shes not happy with that
afternoon is all sunshine and watered down sodas
isles of plastic goodies and elevator musics
the old woman pushing her empty cart while dragging a bag
she goes to get her nails done
i push pebbles into parking lot puddles
and watch the sky drift in the reflection
she is half my age
she sticks her tongue in my ear
i dont mind
there are palm trees and lizzards everywhere
and pebbles in puddles
im a pebble and shes my puddle
shes all wet
im hard
we laugh in the forever summer sunshine
we dance in the parking lot puddles
of the fiveashes publix lot
and daydream the stars above
this is no ordinary love
this is passion's fire in the hearts eyes
shes my jezebel
im her poet
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
we stash away
our fears under
our own beds
before we slumber
and so they crawl
up to the sheets
and when we dream
that's when they'll eat
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
She took my stash,
slapped my ***
and grabbed my vinyls,
took them for another.
She ate my kimchi,
and ate my ****
and ate my grub.
She reminded my of Morgan,
and sometimes she acted.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
"montana-says-yoga-pants-illegal" Look up on Yahoo
we got quite the stash,
under the illegal grass,
in our hidden home,
bring 'em out when
it's just the two of us,
looking to get exercised
o'course we have secret codes,
(yogurt slackers)
never call 'em by their real name
in public,
lest we get sent by drone
to the new
orange and black jail
when we be feeling
risky-frisky,
under our coats
we wear 'em semi-publicly,
but to blend in,
we only buy black,
seeing as we live
in new york seeity,
where we reside,
black be the only
legal color for approved
illegal street walking
never when we travel domestically
in case we get busted,
don't want to face
federal interstate charges
of inciting others to riot sensationally!
this land is not my land,
maybe it is yours,
but if you come alooking
for us, we got a cabin
in the deep words,
where we practice
dress code freedom,
no ties, shirts untucked,
navel (oranges) fully exposed,
button down shirts always unbuttoned,
(my high school days
revolutionary first strike)
hoping to escape
the idiots we
place above us
to "govern"
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Baby Panda
You called me
A pussy-bitch
When you woke
And I smiled
In response
Baby Panda
When eating
Fruity pebbles
With almond milk
You croaked like
A frog, croak
Over 20 times
And got up
To spit in the sink
Excessive saliva
In between
Each bite
I asked you why
You croak
wha?
I smiled
And say
Never mind
Baby Panda
You ran to me
Sobbing as if
The world was ending
My socks!!!
No more clean
**** I forgot
To dry them
You pace
Uncomfortable
As you're forced
To go barefoot
*Feet ****
For longer
Than an hour
Baby Panda
I return to
You're stash
Of a room
And picking up
Your pajamas
I smell an
Accident
Of both sorts
Soiling your
Clothes
sorry
Red faced you enter
I smile and
Remind you
To let me know
Next time
And not to
Throw it on the
Wooden floor
Baby Panda
Socks on smooth
Shoes tied with
Quadrupled knots
You head to your
Room, radio blasting
Some radio talk
Station about comedy
Until 8:21 rolls around
And you run
Like a bullet
To the bus outside
Our house
I smile as you yell
BUS IS HERE
No matter what room
I'm in
Baby Panda
I worry for you
The second you walk
Out the door
Because you have such
Big, terrifying emotions
Yet a small filter
On your words, thoughts
Of your own body
Despite the fact
That you're turning
Into a real teen
Before the summers end
Baby Panda
I wish I could help
In ways I cannot
I can't read your mind
Though you think
I should
Know how by now
I can't make socks magically
Not hurt, or have people
Not get ******
When you randomly shout
Profanities
When your last conversation
Was regarding food
And I can't
Stop the madness that
Overtakes your body
Every time you get ill
Physically, mentally
But Baby Panda
I love you now
And always will
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.
Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.
The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.
With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.
In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.
Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
In Brooklyn, in these hectic times,
if Mom-hood gets you down
you need a little pick me up
so you won't fret and frown.
When we boomers were just babies
Mom might have a glass of wine.
Just enough to take the edge off
and leave her feeling fine.
But Generation X and Y
are more like Cheech and Chong
when baby gets your dander up
It's time to light a ****
A little **** of Mary Jane
gives Moms a pause to sigh.
"Good night Moon" is a gripping read
when Mom is flying high.
Put the little Prince to bed
before Mom has a fit.
Motherhood is stressful
she just needs to take a "hit"
When the" little terrors" get you down
Just think - "this too will pass"
sneak off and roll yourself a joint
We know you have a stash.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
I wish I was a big fat brown furry squirrel
Up in the walnut trees I'd scamper and twirl
Collect my delicious nuts for the frigid winter time
Invite squirrl friends over to party and dine
Take sweltering summer days to run, jump and play
Frighten some silly song birds along the way
No worries of the coming days
No bill collectors at the door to pay
To just live wildly free
Like nature was ment to be
Live out my life in a comfy hole I made in that old walnut tree
That tree was here in my grandpa's days, it's as sturdy as can be
In the winter curl into a warm ball and try to remember
Of where I hid my stash of nuts, come December
I want to be a big fat happy squirrel
Never angain a sad woman-girl
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
Nothing comes easy
never let your honey down
when creating that stash
put your money where your mouth is
Ow Money, Ow Money money, Ow Money money
but your money goes back to the rich
that bottomless *****
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC