Peter,

My madness is a TV screen
(quite apt, dear chap)
and I must channel-surf between
(nursing my laptop)
the best and worst of smultz and glamour
(nothing to clap)
while beating iamb-heads with hammer
(wish I could stop).

Folks all,

No one is talking much, it seems too quiet.
The chimpanzees are bored and off the diet.

Should we not change our topic and opinions?
Let's see...perhaps...the sexiness of onions?

What is that you say? Chap?
Beating heads on lap? Clap?

So,

You’re lying in bed, papayas and grapes,
and what is it that you want of us apes:
Can onions tell sexy by way of debate?
(Discuss it you monkeys – I’ll masturbate)

Hold on there let’s don’t get bent in mad shapes,
you know that this sexy zbaby japes.
So please pick some other primate-jive bait
and keep the root sex-talk for the next date.

Zita,

You think my laptop talk is off the wall?
I wasn't masturbating (much) at all.

'Discovery' has chimpanzees in bras.
TV's the pimp exploiting hairy stars.

I look, I think, I itch, I scratch, I rhyme
eating papaya spiked with salty lime,

train my trochees, let anapests free off the chain
and shout at all my iambs: march again!

Dumb spondees wait - hold back, chimp-brained, they
try damn hard, but cannot run and play.

Rollicking dactyllic lines with the feet all ordained,
speak from the stage of heroic excitement unchained

and then it's exeunt. I've thrown my hex.
We're back on terra firma after sex.

So dear Zita who has spurned the chimp,
this lap-top poet's lines now hobble and limp.

I am done. Now offer your opinions,
but be warned - ya gotta know yr onions.


Ya all,

Let us invite more onion prosody.
Peel some lines and hang them on the tree.

I hesitate to join such racy talk
With two whose feet can clearly walk the walk,
But to defend the onion, noble fruit,
I'll make appeal until there's nothing to it.
What odor's that, defending every lip
From too close contact with a case of grippe?
It is the onion, crisp and raw as apples
And green as summer grass, perfuming chaples,
That keeps the faithful working in their gardens,
'Mid shallots, leeks and chives, where that bulb hardens
That fairly glows with vegetative light
In all its colors, red, yellow and white.
So let the monkey dawdle with banana--
Agnostic though the onion be, it's manna.
What vegetable could'st thou better propose
Than one whose spirit reacheth every nose?

[This message has been edited by Joe Aimone (edited August 28, 2002).]

"But to defend the onion, noble fruit,
I'll make appeal until there's nothing to it."

There's better fruit to hold beneath thy nose;
Italians like to crush it 'tween their toes.
Ugly women of every weight and shape
Are sexpots when you drink the juice of grape.
You can keep your nauseating onions;
I'll mash red grapes till I get bunions.

That odor’s Sweet Imperial, ah yes.
With velvet skin ethereal, undress
that Tennessee ripe Truffle, peel and lull
that boiling onion. Husk that summer bulb.

It’s grilled, sautéed, with stalks exposed, oh my.
Such bunching onion Cippolini thigh,
those Spanish, Chinese, Bermuda scents
sliced raw in ringlets’ guttural suspense;

I’ll tolerate such talk, but oh, oh yes.
If I go on I surely will transgress
into a state of Pearlish readiness,
Vidalia observing me Granex!


[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited August 29, 2002).]

A drunken man with nauseating bunions
is not as titillating as are onions,
no matter of his shape or how he hardens.
The onion’s always willing at my luncheons.

It's nice to see the onion taking root
iambically, in couplets, foot by foot.

The pungent tale of onion goes to the core.
It seems there is no end to onion law

and I commend your efforts - Onion Singers -
Your personal encounters with those stingers

shows just how far the onion is ahead
in literature, philosophy and in bed.

Joe holds the onion firmly in his fingers -
a holy grail of smell, the spirit lingers

and racy Zita barbeques opinions
and proves she knows a thing or two of onions.

but Carl, forever the rebel promotes the grape
and puts the onion in a villain's cape,

yet still the song singeth merrily along.
We know that wine doth lubricate a song.

Now having lunched and peeled some onion layers
let us see who are sprinters, who will be stayers

with onion prosidy in racy meters.
Where's those Henrys, Swagmans, Slaters, Peters?

Those flashy jockeys are elsewhere on the run
but The Onion Cup is waiting to be won.


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


So off on a canter as the bard has once told
the onion came down like a wolf on the fold....

Zbaby

I am neither drunkard nor have I bunions.
From a distance I do not smell like onions.
That noxious fruit that you do seem to relish
is to my nose and eyes so very hellish
that I'll just have to ask you keep your distance
and pray red grapes don't lessen my resistance.

But soft or hard as your onions may be cooked,
on your salty rhymes and humor I am hooked.

Lay on, Zbaby!



[This message has been edited by Carl Sundell (edited August 28, 2002).]

As every dish must have its seasoning,
I must agree with Chris's reasoning.
Although I happily will cook with wine
(Whether in soup or me, I like it fine),
But where are all those singers hot with steam--
What whistle calls them to our odious theme?