A Didactic Rapprochement with Dolorous Perseids
Moon Around Earth.
Earth Around Sun.
How Can The Words
Be More Important
Than the Poem?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the light of the Moon,
I write this.
In it's glow
And the Flow of ink from my pen.
I consider the thought,
Quite abstract,
Very much not possible.
Of the likeness
Of the Moon
Resting firmly on the Earth.
The crater,
Black and White though Gray
In old Home Movies Stolen Years Ago.
Seems a likely place-
Even in the physically irrational.
It is that such a gauge,
Isn't below me as
I lay here resting In light of myself.
But it is,
That as I leave near the morning,
I will again have already begun to rise.
The same Paths
Different Trails.
Different Paths
No trails-
No Traces-
Save for a crater On My Face,
Where it seems
The others of myself
Have rested
When none of the others of me
Knew.
Copyright 2004
David A. Archer
02/15/1968
A new poem, inspired by my recent nut-busting at the hands of elvendreamgirl (and her little dog, too...).
Ahem.
Ode To Getting My Nuts Busted
Nut buster, nut buster,
teste-tied tether trumper,
ball-sacking whack stacker,
scrot-searing waffle maker.
Tanks! Tanks!
On cannons we rode,
in-to Civil combat,
on chode we rode home.
Dreamgirl, oh dreamgirl,
your sent me all wind-whirl,
made me feel all churl,
and grabbed by the small curls.
My head has been messed,
My nuts have been splayed,
My ego's been riddled...
...
Well, at least I'm not spayed!
Dah-dah-dah, dah-dah, DANH. DANH!!!
🙄
Originally posted by PBE6ROFL!!!!!! very good, PB!
A new poem, inspired by my recent nut-busting at the hands of elvendreamgirl (and her little dog, too...).
Ahem.
[b]Ode To Getting My Nuts Busted
Nut buster, nut buster,
teste-tied tether trumper,
ball-sacking whack stacker,
scrot-searing waffle maker.
Tanks! Tanks!
On cannons we rode,
in-to Civil combat,
on chode we rode home.
Dreamgi ...[text shortened]... riddled...
...
Well, at least I'm not spayed!
Dah-dah-dah, dah-dah, DANH. DANH!!!
🙄[/b]
Originally posted by shavixmir<...> <...> I'm trying to snap but my fingers are moist. Those are the kinds of poems that can make men wet!
Oooooohhh... I do like poetry.
Here's some of my old ones:
[b]Poo on fibre
I once dropped a poo,
Into a loo,
It fell with a plop,
And came to a stop,
I wondered aloud,
And said to the crowd,
It came from my cibre,
it's so full of fibre,
'Cause if it were not,
you wouldn't have got,
Such a nice snap,
But more of a splat!
A 6 ...[text shortened]... it his dick,
Is just not that big?
Or to put it quite blunt,
She's a mighty big cunt?
Pin Monkey Blues
I've got that pin monkey's number.
He sets 'em up, I knock 'em down.
Yep. Everytime.
Strike! Strike!
I've got spares (does he care)?
Right curve, oiled boards, 7-10 split.
BOOM! bmmbmmbmm...
He knows what's coming.
SMASH!
That's another thrumming. He's cooked.
And his final humiliation - he has to return my ball
so I can do this all over again.
WHAM! Thanks, Sam.
Yessir, I've got that pin monkey's number.
But you know what he's got that I don't got?
The secret.
Get knocked down 7 times, get back up 8 times.
And all I have is a sprain.