Further from the Beatiful Foot
The rate of completion increases
My reputation's in pieces
The machine grinds on...
The smooth syncopation relaxes
The boredom of my nieces
With sound of skins and saxes
The hummmmmmm of battle axes
Is to me the root of praxis
The thrill is gone...
Long gone.
The rate of elation displeases
As my excentric marine buddy sneezes,
The pursuit grows cold...
The soft susurration untenses
The green suit dyes old
Wherein lies the chill of the senses
And the nub of past tenses
When yesterday's offences
Are paid in gold
The rate of dispersion distresses
Those who with wild guesses
Should dance in lemon dresses
Until the moon grows cold
When the nebulous phantasm
Is sure to cause nifty orgasm,
But blood runs cold and the heart stops short
Or so I was taught
In London old
The tales of squalor abounded
The cry of the beggar resounded
Seeking after gold
The squealing of rusty hinges
Makes a tower of my whinges
But still I'm cold
Stone cold
Like Tiresias of old
The king of hearts is astounded!
His anger unbounded!
The tale as yet untold
By sages or by singers
Or wild bell ringers
Who eschew the common fold
| Contributors: | TG, P, nomi, The Agent Apsley, Grayman, Stacy, a.haw, A.HAW, LaRue, Anon.. |
| Poem finished: | 18th May 1999. |