(part 2)(part 2)
Skip PipTip Nip Snip
Shit Hit Bit Tit
Cut Tut Butt Shut
Brow now how cow
Clown brown frown down
Funny money honey
Coney phoney baloney
Horny corny
Born horn torn
Bore yore tore
Pork cork York
Dig pig big SIG stig
Dug plug tug glug
Glue pooh you
Me three key tea tree
House mouse moose loose
SPIDERS!
(Dan Allen)
If you eat chocolate covered bin lids,
Your eyes will turn orange and you will think to yourself
Is 'The Book of Life' real? Or is it just another issue of
'Angler's Times' telling you how to put a f**king hook
on a piece of string.
After you think this,
A giant ladybird will come and stand on your head.
(Gray Mason)
Living inside your head are little apostrophes
Telling Major Tom to call ground control,
Houston we have a problem!
When shops sell ideas, the ideas of children.
Dancing in fields of golden flowers,
Singing songs sweeter than a baby's face.
(Dan Allen)
Video cassettes,
Are just figments of our imaginations
.
In real life they are Chubb door locks
With nuclear powered ants guarding it,
Making sure that they feed it,
with blue tomatoes and purple super ducks.
(Gray Mason)
When Magi travel across deserts,
In the wilderness of one's nose,
The power of lightning,
Can even respect Monkeys!
Stories of old England,
Tell of the power of love, and the strength of one's own heart.
When respectable monkeys reappear,
to direct the workers into the void of Masculinity.
Paper, white and weak.
Transport the Magi to the Home Front.
The ground sinks to reveal fish, and wind,
Blowing all Britain's litter over the channel to France.
Bicycles tell of past competitions,
In which characters compete in a battle of wits
in the forests of the south.
The magical water maiden, blesses us all,
And presents us with a riddle,
If we fail this riddle, we will subdue a lifetime of eternal torment.
Locked up with criminals, sentenced to die by strangling.
The strangler lives in the north by the crooked bridge.
Those who succeed in answering the riddle,
Can be happy for all eternity, with sexy virgin maiden sluts,
Sucking their cocks twenty-four-seven FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Dan Allen)
Flea-Bag
Yet yet yet
Behold wonders you have not yet met
The flea is back with sword held high
Standing tall under a shivering sky
Evil beckons in the dark
Shouting insults screaming remarks
The Bags!!! The Bags!!!! Quick men scatter
But to the flea it does not matter
He's dead anyway it's his last stand
Grits his teeth, sword in hand
Wait what's this? Liquid and bubbles
Flea can't swim it could be trouble,
Travelling down his final path
THE FU**IN CAT IS HAVIN' A BATH!
(Dan Allen)
Lastly, one of Dan's, "proper" poems...
Sonnet of War
She wanted to know about that war;
Of the men that I had killed.
The lost days of by gone gore,
And all the blood that I have spilled.
Maybe specters, all her own,
Or just curious, of the dead and dancing.
Who could really, ever have known?
Perhaps, it was just passing fancy.
I didn't speak of the dead's whisper.
The myriad stories they had to tell.
The burned flesh searing crisper.
Of their anguish, felt in Hell.
The panorama she made me remember;
All the memories of the weak.
I left my home that day in December,
It wasn't truth, I went to seek.
I saw a sky, without noon or midnight.
Flames stretched, and stained it black.
Still the ground, offered some light,
And glimmer enough, to press the attack.
Faces soared skyward, through this flame.
You couldn't look at them, long at all.
Helmet, flak jacket, and them to blame.
A rifle, a cigarette, and my homeward call.
The field was set with muzzle flash.
The players took the stage.
Hearts burning, like oil field cash,
With every fiber of your rage.
Steel swarmed like hornets.
Concussion filled my ears.
My eyes wide, with bayonets.
And no time for all my fears.
And when the moment, came and went,
I was not needing mended.
All the passions, had been spent.
And most of the dying ended.
I came across this enemy mine,
just laying there in the sand.
It was close, to his time,
So I sat, and held Death's hand.
What I learned, I have not revealed.
Some secrets should not be shared.
The hearts of men, should be concealed.
And most others, never cared.
I buried him there; my new found friend,
In a grave, of shallow sand.
What if I, had found my end?
And was buried in a foreign land?
It was time to go; Our moment gone.
Why bother to say good bye?
Other battles, still raged on.
There were no tears to cry.
But I could disassociate;
Make it somehow, not so real.
As I shuffled, and dealt out fate.
The rifle's kick was all I'd feel.
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Poor bastard of happenstance.
Everyone, has to die.
Though human loss had settled in,
I still dreamed, of going home.
In a time of war, it's not a sin...
Besides, sin, was all my own.
A day at the office. No killing here.
Keep that weapon clean.
No flag, or idea, held dear.
Just survival, it would seem.
Years later, I talked with her...
with the words that I could find.
But it all was such a blur...
And why pollute her mind?
(Dan Allen)
See also Robyn & Nebraskas Weird Things that Rhyme
and don't forget to send your stupid poems to: Karolina & Sean