Sunday, 6 March 2011

A Sickly Poem

I'll boke on the floor if a bag isn't found, 
We can't stop it now, it's that or the ground.
It wasn't so bad as I read of your 'meal', 
But why buy a book to feed to your seal?

That makes no sense but then it got worse, 
The seal kept eating, expanding its girth.
I said it was terrible and that it set the scene, 
But why did I write it and what did it mean?

You may want to rethink what to do with your time, 
Was there a point or was it just for the rhyme?
I should boke down your shirt and it's not that far fetched,
Unlike your stanzas which left me perplexed.

I once saw some vomit so ominiously coming, 
Brought on by a story of a sheep and some plumming.
It was a bite sized tale about a creature so cute,
The sheep was old but also minute.

Like a borrower she lived off the scraps in a house 
But sadly she hadn't the speed of a mouse.
One day on a radiator she ran out of luck, 
The heating came on and she found herself stuck.

The temperature kept rising until there was steam, 
Internal fluids bubbling out at her seams.
It wasn't a pleasant sight or smell to behold,
Her wool contracted, her corpse it did mould.

There on the pipes swollen with heat
Sat a woolen ball of mutton - a cute cloud of meat.

The coach we were riding in when this narrative was told
Became covered with a breakfast not very old.
But unlike this fiction of an animal in trouble,
Reading pointless poetry makes me puke double.

I hasten to remind you I'm so close to hurling 
It's my own terrible poetry creating this churning.
So in order to end this I'll boke in my drink
Then force down the lumps with the plug in the sink.

1 comment:

  1. I loved this! Beatnik snaps for you, good lifeform.

    The meter almost had the feeling of reading/saying dirty limericks as a child. Or as an adult in the pub.




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