Some say that he was a sage
And his railway was once all the rage
But despite the sweet ride
The tracks were too wide
And he lost the war o'er "Break of Gauge"
To the eyes of the ignorant rabble
It looks like a load of pure babble
But my motives are pure
(Though my diction's obscure)
Either that, or I'm cheating at Scrabble
What I'd call a # Hidden text
hash sign
Americans mostly call # Hidden text
pound
Though in C♯ Hidden text
sharp
To look like ## Hidden text
octothorps
And would # Hidden text
hex
###
∫ dcabin/cabin = log cabin.
A mathematician named Klein
Thought the Möbius band was divine
He said "If you glue
The edges of two
You get a weird bottle like mine."
(Leo Moser)
A smelly, stub filled old ashtray.
Badly kept Greene King IPA.
Grim, pinched-face psychosis.
Severe halitosis.
That's Faragery in the UK.
An athlete of deeds meritorious,
Whose life had been largely victorious,
With blind gunshots multiple -
Homicide Culpable -
Guilty of acts most inglorious
Hidden text
We killed him, then waited a minute / Took him down, found a tomb, stuck him in it / Rolled a boulder in front / And then somehow that **** / Survived! Now that's magic, innit!
Boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs
Boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs
Boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs
Boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs
Boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs, boobs boobs boobs boobs.
OR
My name is Mouldy Muldoon
And I am a shade of maroon
That is kind of green
With an opulent sheen
That shines with the light of the moon!
A swimmer I wish you could be
So sleek like the kings of the sea
But yet naught again
Shall our closeness maintain
Glory's short-lived dear, you see?
I a time can recall
Where you and I stood 'neath a wall
O'erhead the shots hissed
While you and I kissed
With no fear inside us at all
Perhaps we are nothing my dear
And nothing surrounds us I fear
In which case now flee
This solipsism with me
Heroism's a lousy career
In the city of David, a shed
And in it a crib for a bed
A mother so mild
JC was her child
And there she laid down his sweet head.
Did I read clearly that the Pres-to-be has put a munchkin in a top role?
Terribly contrived, but happy new year anyway
On Seduction
Candy
Is dandy
But liquor
Is quicker.
My mother said I should not
Complain of my God-given lot
But I feel I'm deprived
As I have not arrived
Where by now I should surely have got.
It sounds like the real thing, for sure
But will its works really endure?
Or does its success
Mean that we must confess
That "real" poetry's just as obscure?
A secret sect of demon-hunting nuns
Is all that stands 'gainst ruin of the world
An orphaned teenage girl unwilling hurled
Must fight with holy water, cross, and guns.
A world called into being by this spell:
"A secret sect of demon-hunting nuns"
About this grit the writers' mucus runs,
And hardens to a pearl they're sure will sell.
A name: the Halo-Bearer! Superpowers!
She wakes up in a morgue, shorn free of ties
No parents block the plot; her soul must rise
Take up her quest to throw down evil towers.
So long as bits shall flow and draw the clicks
So long lives this, and all thanks to Netflix.