Poison Ivy, I think you know
that you will always be my foe.
I can slice your vine, pal-o-mine,
and still end slathered in calamine.
Because I must haul your corpse away,
and on my gloves your oils will stay —
waiting that unexpecting day
when I scratch some tender bit.
It wound around the burial mounds
through the soft and seedy sides
of town
And though it was but one foot shallow,
non-townies were swallowed
(and surely drowned)
because that ground was hallowed.
It took souls, lost - never to be found -
then rolled on to the next ghost town.
Rusty prayer wheels
on a dusty street.
They squeak & they squeal,
& no circuit completes,
but still hands reach out for each one
'cause who has faith in the clean wheel spun?
Perhaps, you cannot change your jail,
And you can't choose the lumps and scars --
No matter how you scream or wail --
But you pick your view through the bars.
The dragonfly strafing lilies
doesn't know how very silly
a bantam taller than a ram
seems to a ram tall as a filly.
In a mountain village,
the roosters crow all day.
Hopes of mid-day napping
are dashed along the way.
One cluster of Mountain Azalea
Stands out like royal regalia,
Adorning a near naked vagrant --
But much more pleasingly fragrant.
Against the bright white palace domes
fluffy clouds seem a tad too much,
and so they start to limp on home
like a gimp beggar on his crutch.
I would not like a tattoo.
I would not like one - old or new.
I wouldn't like one in a Zoo.
I wouldn't like one in a canoe.
I would not like one,
Ham though I am,
I would not like any body-spam.
One can't class up a Porta Potty
With French or fancy works of art.
For each is like a ghetto squatty
Where one fears to sit... or even fart.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 