Poetry in the head

Ok, so today I am going to attempt writing a poem. This being my first real attempt, I don’t expect anything earth shattering out of my head. And yes, it will be still on random stuff.  And it will still be as spontaneous as the previous posts. Hopefully. So yeah, go sit under your table and cut your nails. And um…. Tarantulas!!!

 

As I sit and wonder whether ants can be any better,

All I can think is about how I really want to write a letter

About what…? You may ask

Alas, I need to take the porcupine to task

The day I first met Shilton, the old lamp post

I felt the happiness of a blue eyed ghost

Dressed in blue, black and a tinge of green

The butler took great pleasure in eating his master’s spleen

So why am I sitting and writing this poem?

Tis because I know not a word which rhymes with poem

I still consider my best work to be Chicken Monkey Shoes

Though in all likelihood, everyone who read it took a sound snooze

Until however, I wrote Lament of a Lemon

Then I was stoned by people claiming I should go live in Yemen

Or was it Bremen?

I know not because I simply don’t care

And besides, I have the enthusiasm of a sloth bear

So why bother chewing on inconsiderate twigs

When all I can laugh about at the moment is wiggling pigs

At this point, I have to point out that the line above

I would rather it be a yeti, well sort of

But then again, the whole point of being random is lost

At this point the line between randomness and real world is crossed

So I get back to my original rant

With all the grace of a horny Kant

Which came first? The chicken or the egg?

I don’t care. I just want the chicken leg

Darwin must have been immune to the rabbit

Because his constant bickering with Elmer Fudd became a habit

Don’t try and find meaning in this post

Except you, of course, you’re likely to be grossed

While I am in the mood for a bag of silver baked bells

My head is itching to go into the cave in which my mind dwells

I am fiercely protective of my guardian pineapple

Does the early bird get the worm even if the worm sits inside the apple?

One often wonders whether it’s the right thing to eat fried mamelukes

But I was stuck here until Fat Fuck told me what rhymed with it was honeydukes

He’s slightly a mad hat monkey man in a trunk

But at the same time, he cried a lot and convinced us he had no spunk

Sorry da Blackmark

I don’t know why you had to get into this piece of art

 

So now I feel like ending this

No you dumbass, I don’t want your Swiss miss

Nor a French Kiss.

On second thoughts, yeah that would do just fine. Now you wonder what’s amiss?