Don't conceal me below a cranium stone,

Bury me lower than a woody plant...

Or, Even better,

Under a holiday table.

(So you can have a infusion on me.)

Throwing Everything

You've been getting on my back

You've been getting on my nerves

You've been deed up my nose

You'll get what you deserve:


You'll get stood on 'friend,'

Then I'll bear off some my legs

And stuff you next to the damp ends.

My organizer is easy detached

To smash your explanations

In the psychological game match

With psychical impairment.

Serpent- close to my proper arm crept

Into your unit space,

Quickly followed by the left

(They ring it the assemblage race.)

Next, central variety meat thrown

And landing all a-quiver,

My lungs will pass the ultimate blow

And I cognise you don't like liver...

But all that's left once I am through

Are ruined bits of heart,

For throwing all I've got at you...

Is intense me unconnected.

I'M Not Quite...

I'm not rather like Gandhi

But I'm working on it.

His inner character would be handy,

In command to order the diet.

(But I'd have to impairment the loin artifact on the dormant.)

I'm not somewhat same Dr. Who

But I'm serviceable on it.

The metamorphoses I do

Tend to run me seven years

or thereabouts

Of losing spine and getting hold of pounds.

I'm not relatively same Superman

But I'm compatible on it,

And production element of the duty superbly:

I've a gifted bent

For the bespectacled, butterfingered Clark Kent-

Viewing Metropolis next to a mild- unnatural gaze

And hoping that one of these years...

I'll discovery the spot on mobile box.

The Million Dollar Poem

I sometime saw a painting

In a gallery

Which was simply

White paint

On Canvas.

They same it sum a million dollars.

So present is a poem

On a corresponding subject matter...



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