Whacky
Lapwings on my shoulders, nickels in my purse
Splendid granite boulders, an ancient celtic curse
I have to laugh at all these things, I am so undeveloped
My fear of witchcraft has me quite enveloped
Farthings in my jockstrap, quarters in my snatch
Squirrels in my rock sack, an egg that's ripe to hatch
get a room you two ; )
I have to snort at all these things, I am so overanxious
For all our tribulations no-one ever thanks us
Bustards in my pocket, soup spoons in my hat
Centaurs in a locket, please do stop to chat
I have to smirk at all these things, I am so algorithmic
Let's all the whackers & spoonbillers get together for a picnic.
It is an idea that I have oft imagined
We could hold a beauty pageant
or a la Star Trek, a convention
Where geeks can get attention
Where is the chat?
This is where it's at
Okay, then after this line hit end stanza
That would be a true bonanza!
Contributors: | Francine, Nym, N (who's mts.net?), Karin, tinyurl.com/he3 is a room, Nym(no luck with chat?), tinyurl.com/hes3, F. |
Poem finished: | 19th July 2003. |