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Online Dating: The Older Man!For many years I have delayed, but now I’m tired of waiting,
For now I feel mature enough, to tackle online dating
I think I must be honest, and say it’s been a while,
Since last I had a lady friend, but here goes with my profile:
I'm mostly known as Horace, but I've never liked this name,
I've changed it now to Boris, though it does sound much the same!
I think I’m almost five foot tall - was six foot but I'm shrinking,
But never mind, for short is cute - at least that's what I'm thinking!
I like my hair to be au naturale, which means that I am bald,
Well, if I'm to be quite honest, it's just part of growing old,
I have the most amazing ears and ditto with my nose,
For age has blessed me with a gene for extremities that grow!
My lips are good but I must admit that I have rotten teeth,
and my chin has yet another chin that's growing underneath,
Good to have a spare part though, that's what I always say,
Though I'm not sure all the ladies would look at it this
... Merry Birthday, Jeff!!!*
Hello Gorgeous, pretty fella!
Would write you a complete novella
of young and charming Cinderella
draped with but a pink umbrella,
munching beef with Salmonella -
however - great. You are in luck:
my pen is simply grossly stuck!
Mean and tricksy midnight puck
with firm blessings stuffed 'n tucked
it in none too small a scale
well underneath the fluffy tail
~ of a well fed mongoose duck!
... Oh, ye gods!!!
What ever are we now to do?!!
Here's a quirky point of view:
let us fill her with fine brew;
for until she finds the loo -
our common goal we can't pursue!
So, in the Merry month of May,
- or July - whichever way -
run, have fun - enjoy your play
and dip thine whiskers in soufflé
of gifts and wishes: a neat soiree
(that we are) we cheer and say:
~ long live our Jeffy on this saintly Day!
Internetowe loweInternetowe Lowe
Zycie, tak jakoś czasem dziwnie się układa
i czujemy, że w serce jest wbita szpada.
Wtedy, no wiadomo szukamy uleczenia
Bo cóż, każda jest dobra droga do zbawienia.
Niestety często nie pomoże nam rodzina.
A druh jest głuchy na żale jak wykładzina.
Wtedy szukamy dalej i dalej medyka,
bo od ignorowania problem nie zanika.
I tutaj pojawiają się nam Internety,
które mogą budować nadzieje, niestety.
Często jest tak w tej internetowej sieci,
że tam znajdują zrozumienie smutne dzieci.
Samotność jest naszym płaszczem, dobrze okrywa.
Dotyk bliskich nam osób boli jak pokrzywa.
Szukamy dlatego w sieci pocieszenia,
tam z pewnością uciekną nasze zmartwienia.
I tak bajka się toczy, czasem się tak dzieje,
że poznając kogoś przez sieć mamy nadzieje,
nie widząc osoby twarzy, nie słysząc głosu,
Why Dogs are Better Than CatsA dog has a lot to do,
But you already to that,
and so this is a poem all about
why dogs are better than cats.
First, let's talk about night,
Since night gives most of us some fright;
Dogs will sleep all through the day (except when they have to play, of course)
But if an intruder knocks on the door,
A dog will roll up off the floor,
And bark, and bark, and bark.
And say the intruder didn't knock,
The dog will not exactly bark,
But will come up to the bad guy
wagging its tail,
Distracting the bad fellow with endless kisses.
Then Mom will know something is amiss,
Since someone in the house is getting kissed,
and everyone is safe in bed,
So a bad guy must be wanting fed;
So the Mom will come down and bring out the chicken,
Or at least that's what Fido thinks,
Then she'll feed Fido first, and then the bad guy,
Who wants to be fed
And everyone will be happy because Fido got chicken, and petted, and so forth.
Oviously there is no need for point two,
Because it should be very clear to you,
blind justicecaught in the act
a selfie to boot
should not have posed
so close to the loot
darn social media
a souvenir is fine
but don't show the whole world
who committed the crime
when all the evidence
is so easy to find
only hope that justice
will truly be blind
A Case of Identity: James WindibankA/N: By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--"
“Mr. James Windibank,
Those who play games of sin we spank.”
Holmes raises his hunting crop…
“Oh, is that the time? I mustn’t stop!”
(wild clatter of steps upon the stairs)
Never A Happy EndingOver a Beer a Psychologist once told me...that there are only a few that he never truely understood,
and the worst out of the whole lot,
was that Little Miss Red Riding Hood.
She told him lies and would often storm of in a huff,
from day one he knew...'this little girl was going to be tuff'.
She told him how...she would cut with a knife,
any Wolf...that would dare give her any strife.
This bitterness she carried with her...through out her whole life,
she never once found love...or was to become someones wife.
In old age... her good vision was lost,
and to this...any poor four legged creature, with its life...would unfortunately pay the cost.
Stuck growing old...as a little fairytale girl,
she ended up going insane...claiming everything had a Wolf like smell.
Then she got institutionalised...when she thought granny was a Wolf...and threw her down the Well.
With more beer...the Psychologist...more tales, he started to tell,
Then there was Prince Charming....who never really got over his
The Last Little PiggyDid you ever hear the full ending of the Three Little Pigs tale?
In the end...the last little piggy had to sue the builders
when the foundation of his brick house...did fail,
and on top of that...
He built a house without planning permission,
and could have faced a fine...or even gone to Jail.
To the council the little Pig made many trips,
each time the Big Bad Wolf... watching, whilst licking his big hairy lips.
'With brick'...the little pig was told...he could build his home in any town,
but in the country side...'your brick house...under regulations, it must be knocked down.'
'That is the rules of this land,
do you Little Piggy '...they asked...'understand? '
'But all my friends that have built with Straw,
are no longer here...they are no more,
built with Sticks... they have too been beaten,
now you want me to build like that... then surely I will be next to be eaten.
Told to take it down... that very day,
little piggy was sent on his way.
He knocked down his old house...leaving a p
Out To Sea!Oe’r the waves and rushing tides we sail!
Out to sea where uncharted land lies!
Out to sea where monsters wait!
Out to sea where dreams may live!
Out to sea where destiny lies!
Out to sea!
Out to sea!
Out to sea where pirates await!
Out to sea where action is life!
Where treasure awaits!
Out to sea!
Out to sea!
Out to sea where we find ourselves!
Out to sea where life is at it’s fullest!
Out to sea!
Out to sea!!!
I wonder what I should write about,
For this literature project of mine.
I would start at it, but nothing comes to mind.
I seem to be in the middle of a creative drought.
So I am just sitting here, staring with a pout.
I really should get going on it, instead of just whine,
About the poetry paper that has been assigned.
I would really rather go with my friends to hang out.
I excel at procrastinating, though its something that I hate,
All of a sudden I feel that Im so very, very behind.
I wish I could come up with something just a little more refined.
I dont even want to know the score this poem will rate.
Well heres my philosophy, which everyone must know
That when it comes to poetry, anything should go!
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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