Detritus

.

Abandoned
at a place
that is shunned;
even by the homeless
and other street litter

Written for Magpie Talesafter a visit with a mentally ill relative who has lost hope.

Oo la-la!

We tried it for all we was worf
To kiss, but no way on this earf!
His outsize proboscis
At first really stopped us,
Until we found bliss soixante-neuf!

Note: You will be relieved to learn there is no second verse.
More Magpie Tales can be found here.

Mission Impossible.

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I told you I'd done it with pairs
Of cows, horses, even with hares.
But what you are asking
Is past multi-tasking.
Have you ever tried herding chairs?!

..............................

Latin version.
Chairs upon chairs upon chairs infinitum,
Mystery milieu, a ghostly conundrum.
What is this miss
Doing here in the mist?
She’s looking for people to join her and sitonum!

...............................

There's always a somebody who
Will write something better than you.
So click on the link,
You'll be tickled pink
At what clever poets can do!

Moore's more-more Maw!

Enormous Johnny Trencherman,
With gluttony was cursed
His rotund middle section
Ever threatening to burst.

And so it did one fateful day
When at a barbecue.
His innards just exploded out
And Johnny’s life was through.

So bits of steak flew all about,
With chops and shish kebab
Mixed up with toxic juices that were
Mainly Coke and Tab.

Some took cover under chairs
While others weren’t so blessed
And some were blown right off their feet,
But all of them were messed.

An eerie silence overwhelmed
The women, kids and men.
As pairs of eyes looked at each other,
Blinked and looked again.

And then the screams and cries began
As people voiced their fright,
And one old dear was heard to mutter;
“Not at all polite!”

So all as one, they scurried off
To shower, scrub and clean,
The hosts were left to gather up
His stomach, bowels and spleen.

They raked and swept and tidied up
For days on end until,
They’d found about enough of him
His casket, to just fill.

Then came deliberations
On what words could be said
Too mark poor Johnny’s passing
While respectful of the dead.

They came up with an epitaph
To best describe his flaw,
But stonemasons are sometimes cursed
With spelling, very poor.

So on his stone, a homophone
Appears forevermore,
The one word that he uttered most:
He’d always asked for ‘More’.

.........................

Sir Thomas Moore
He used to snore
With volume quite prepost-er-ous
And some would swear;
“I do declare,
He’s like a hippopotamus!”
.................................

Disclaimer: Any similarity to any person living or dead is absolutely intentional.
More Moores can be found at Magpie Tales.