Oh, my little Erin,
For your humor you should be a Barron.
Work is so lame,
If only we could play a game.
The bird that flew by was a Herron.
Today is a day of work.
I feel like a freakin' tax clerk.
I'm working so hard,
I'll turn into a retard.
For that comment I'm a jerk.
by B$
it's funny you say you're a retard,
for i often wear a tight leotard.
i stand on my toes
and cry for my woes
when i should just call you a big tard!
by poet 1
Friday, January 07, 2005
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6 comments:
I know I'm going to hell for writing this, but anytime you mention the word "tard," it makes me laugh.
And where's the new entry? Your audience eagerly awaits your next poem.
I too enjoy the use of the word tard, it makes me laugh. I was wondering if the poets knew what the word anthology means? Because if they did maybe they would post more often, as it is the blog should be called 88poetryrandom.
or 88poetrywheneverthehellifeellikeit.
or 88poetryi'msobusynotwritingpoetrywhichisthemostimportantactivityofthedaybytheway
I Wrote this:
The Burial Lot
No color exists here, save black and white
Fog obscures my tainted sight
I enter, slowly, this haunting place
Feeling both death’s cold breath and heaven’s grace
I open the old wrought iron gate
The fence is dark, and cold with hate
I wade through isles of crumbling stone
About me, remnants of unearthed bone
Mosses cover the ancient slabs
Scaring the pitted surfaces like scabs
Feet carry me across the frost covered earth
Not yet thawed by morning’s birth
Searching for others, I find no trace
Most still living do not visit this place
Those that come always turn away
Only the ones that are dead do stay
I think of those who sleep under this ground
Those who life hath upon them frowned
Each lies and rots in their earthen tomb
Like an infant in death’s morbid womb
I breathe the air, cold and dense
The same that they have not breathed since
The day they met their inescapable fate
On their faded headstones is marked that date
Their families mourned, their lovers cried
Lamenting those who have died
And I think as I watch the fading morning moon
That my time to join them will be coming soon
The flowers are laid down on the grave
Marking those we could not save
But the flesh of the dead still begins to rot
Weather we tend the grave, or not
And when we die, they are forgot
So let alone the dead, and the burial lot
umm...my poems are a lot more fun than yours. word.
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