Tell me, sonny:
how can one
excise fun
and still be funny?

Having fun and being funny
should run together like bread and honey,
but often don't, I must admit.
They are mis-matched as love and money.

Thoughts of a lowly primate

From atop an
Ivory verbiage tower
Condemned by mites
Do I need a shower?
*Like grazing bovines
atop Henry’s belly?
I think I'd prefer his
toe jam or jelly!*
I did not mean
to offend the steeples
Of thou high
and sensible
metrical peoples
Is lack
of order
simply
considered
crass?
Well those who
think
so
can kiss my cathedral chopped up verse.




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited August 18, 2002).]

How did you know, sweet Melie,
About those cows on my belly?
Was it that clue, "navel grazing"?
An odd but a clairvoyant phrasing.

With wandering ruminant cattle,
all over your tum, it's a battle,
And sometimes I find
That fluff of a kind,
Like cotton
But rather more smelly
Has formed in my belly-
Button.

Henry, I must say you remind me
Of something I though left behind me,
'Tis a romantic bit of fluff
One quoted in a lady's muff,
A verse I mis-hear ringing now:
"I wandered, lonely as a cow..."

Belly lint, you sure can't beat it.
But please sir, just don't eat it.

Please understand that there's no lint
in belly buttons, Mel,
a point I illustrate by dint
of this little doggerel:


MEDITATION

When I sit and contemplate
my navel, as is faddish,
the only thing I find is salt
in which I dip my radish.

Though I may not find inner peace
as lotus-like I scrunch,
my sense of inner hunger dies
as I consume my lunch.

On meditation I can rant
but not with that communal slant…
If inner conflicts don’t exist
then how can anyone get pissed?

Since I was left behind
before I had turned six,
I learned a certain kind
of tension quelling tricks:

I taught myself exactly how
to breathe and focus
on it; the fuzzy static “now”
went in my nose
and out it.

Having fun and being funny
man’s priority,
eating plenty bread and honey
quite religiously;

But having fun and being serious
what a paradox!
I meditate until delirious
wearing only socks.

Bad Spelling


Meditation, masturbation?
Nope - Melalope's our medication,
plus navel lint for witches' potion,
dandruff snow or snake-bite lotion,
yak fleas, frog knees -
French or Chinese,
witchety grub, dead flies and bees.
Stir them, fry them,
will them, whir them,
add any backbone under heaven.
Throw in Zz's holy socks,
a lopped-off thumb from Goldilocks,
a turkey feather, gizzard of partridge,
Joe Alimone's spent twelve-bore cartridge.
Add a spoon of Henry's jam
(this soup won't taste like pea and ham),
add Blob, add Thing, some Gretal, some Hansel
and stir with Roger's cyber-pencil.

Make a paste, apply to forehead,
chaunt this spell, go off to bed
and you will dream of poison arrows,
and atom bombs dropping on tiny sparrows.
This stuff's BAD - the doves will duel -
a recipe for rhymer's gruel.




[This message has been edited by chris (edited August 19, 2002).]

Addendum to the Perfect Receipt

Now season it to taste: have Chris
Wring in his drop of scentless water.



[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 19, 2002).]