This Goaded Posture
You write sixteen lines, and what do you get?
Another day older? Some form of het-met?
Or yo-ho-ho's emptied from bottle of rum?
A drum! A drum! MacBeth doth come!
And what is the capital of Tibet?
Why, Lhasa, says Felix, winning the bet.
And how many hookers can dance in a slum?
Ah, now we're back to the bottle of rum.
When dancing flamenco, with each castanet,
Flail your limbs, says Felix, don't vomit just yet
dance wild - smoke a marijuana cigarette
There's dossiers for secret agents to vet!
So skip the fandango, establish the fund
Get money from Felix! He's easily stunned
By line fifteen when you're thoroughly wet
And like this poem finished, to no one's regret.
Contributors: | dkb, Kevin Andrew Murphy, Kansas Sam, Yonmei, Larry Brennan, D, kevin, Dave G., loaf, Ardinger. |
Poem finished: | 18th June 2003. |