Category: Poetry

A pickle puss and sour sucker,
Sam was such a boy,
That nothing ever pleased him,
Nor gave him any joy.

When given treats and candy,
He would fret about his teeth,
When taken to a movie,
He complained about his seat.

The swimming pool was much too cool,
The hot tub much too warm,
The sofa cushions way to soft,
Rain showers were all storms.

Then one day a passing man,
Questioned very loud,
If there could be anything,
Of which Sam would be proud.

Hearing this Sam wondered,
Just what it was he liked,
And smiling he concluded that,
He really liked to gripe.

The brillig brinds had long died down
The wabe had gone to sleep
The slithy toves their gimble drown
The mome raths lost their peep. 

All the shorf was calm and geep,
A peaceful fugel filled the air,
But calmness only runs so deep,
Around the monster's lair.

Young Jabberwok the mighty heir,
Had grown into a beast,
And sought our former hero fair,
On his heart to feast.

In fraptuous fields his mind would dwell, 
He'd pace from flomp to flounce,
His sire's words remembered well,
"When scrundled you should pounce."

So lurking out to seek his foe,
Gnashing teeth and jaw,
He crossed the groob and forest loe,
Catching with his claws.

He found the hero at his plate
Scratching with his pen,
Then orkled through the portal gate,
And crundled round the fen.

In the void the hero sat,
Suspecting crunktious deeds,
Scribing ballads inked in black,
About some noxious weeds.

Then charged in young Jabberwok,
With scrouching siffs and swits,
And grabbed the hero by the sock,
And other hanging bits.

The vorpal sword once swift and sleek,
Had lost its edge to time,
The hero's back now bent and weak,
To food must be resigned.

The snacker snick of claws and teeth,
Crickled swiftly through the air,
And swallowed whole both sword and sheath,
And our hero fair.

This slimy sludge from who knows where,
Slithers coldly off the spoon,
Then down my throat disgusting goes,
So foul it makes me swoon.

They say this stuff is good for me,
Will make me tall and strong,
Will give me muscles piled high,
And hair grow lush and long.

But 'seems to me that all of them,
Are more than common plain,
Giving me no evidence,
To support their claims.

The living room has changed its form,
No longer holding to the norms,
Established by society, 
Of taste and propriety,
For a room of this design,
Should have an aspect most refined.

But today a troop of clowns,
Looted blankets all around,
And with them built a monstrous tent,
In the space for adults meant,
Pressing benches, chairs and all,
Into service as the walls.

The comfey couch with bouncy seat,
Is used by one who's planned a feat,
As a vault to launch him high,
For a trick none else would try,
Soaring high in flips and twists,
Watchers praying he won't miss.

Skip-de-doodle, hop along,
Sing yourself a nonsense song,
Loud and proud with power voice,
Any words - they are your choice,
Holler higher than the trees,
Hear it echo if you please,
Squawk like chickens laying eggs,
Thump the ground with dino legs,
Chirp and roar your heart's content,
Heeding not who's ear is bent,
Not a care what others do,
Sing it simply to please you.

When everyone must be the same,
In how and what they do,
Meet a standard clearly set,
And send results to experts true,

Anyone who stands apart,
Ahead those in the rear,
Must be dragged clear to the back,
By force or threats and fear,

Lest those failing to keep up,
Should have their feelings hurt,
Everyone in syncronous step,
Must wallow in the dirt.