Free verse № 149091
Give it up Max
Bury your beard in your hands,
And your chisel in your face,
Face up to facts,
Your behaviour's not ace.
You've upset poor Dovina,
Whose had problems enough,
Without you blundering around,
On her broken muff.
You try to be all folksy,
With your use of "cute" and "critter",
But underneath your beard,
It's clear you take it up the shitter.
15 comments
I have a David Gower-based poem in production for you.
Examine the weight of his willow,
He'll soon be whacking his balls,
Whilst your biting hard on your pillow.
Oh, the things one learns because of the 'ranker. From Wikipedia: "Gower was an elegant left hand batsmen and has a reputation for being aloof, perhaps because of his privately educated background and upper-class accent and manner . . . Its [sic] also worth mentioning that David Gower has been immortalised in cockney rhyming slang as the term "shower" - e.g. 'I'm feeling a bit rank, i'm off for a david, where I'll strip me willow'." (Okay, I added that last bit about the willow.)
Dream Gower (sonnet) by Ranger
Shall I compare thee to a morning's play?
When England open first on Lords' fine ground
And Aussies o'er the world watch in dismay
As fifties! hundreds! double tons abound
With front foot forward - front knee bent, the click
Of willow meeting leather brings a cheer
Then when the ball's pitched short, a subtle flick
Shall bring four more! The bound'ry swiftly cleared
In graceful flight. But thou art just a dream
O noble dream! To make me ever yearn
For cover drives borne from the spinning seam
And hair as white as hats which stop sun's burn
But Test match scores shall never run this way
Now glory's over. English sport is gay
No one played with a straighter bat and a benter knee.
I think you have posted in the safest place if you don't want anyone to see it.
Are there actually any rules to baseball, or is it just rounders played on steroids?
I watched for about two hours and thought they were just warming up but apparantly the game had just finished in a comprehensive stalemate.
The question is, though, was two hours long enough to finish a kingsized Coke and an imperial-galactic-overlord sized tub of popcorn?
Nor is his face
He tugged on my muff
But itâs sturdy enough
Whatâs amazing to me
Is he canât find his 3.
As it lies under thee,
He possess no strength,
To search you at length,
Surveying your scribblings,
And incessant quibblings,
To find number three,
Would break him or me.
Nor under my skirt, ridden
He possesses no strength
And could find it at length
With ten thousand poems
Even more.
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