There once was a man from Rhode Island.
Who liked wiggling his toes in the sand.
Though it just a few times a year,
cos he held his toes quite dear.
And freezing them off he couldn’t stand.
With miles of beach,
they’re only seasonally in reach.
But walks when not freezing,
they’re still always pleasing.
And you don’t burn the peach.
Genes you see have crossed the sea,
his mom as Irish as she can be.
They being that pale as well.
Their summers a living hell.
I guess even good luck’s not free.
Happy St. Patrick’s Month!
Just a stick of wood,
that feels so good.
A pencil awaits a hand,
for alone it can not stand.
And lie it never should.
With paper it melds,
emotion thus swells.
Then feeling as should,
the lines understood.
And life’s pokes it quells.
The mind set free,
the future we see.
The past that is earned,
a new leaf is turned.
But breaks will always be.
This poem begun before it began.
It’s a story of woman and her fan.
The pair met mid-stride,
their feelings can’t hide.
And a next verse awaits fates plan.
A little critique of critics;
their last line the next predicts.
With none to explain,
they poke and complain.
But the hardened unfazed by pricks.
There once a young ladd from a small beach.
His eyes grew bigger of a world out of reach.
Till ships bells called, future’s clear.
Away to venture, the beach stayed near.
Anchors away, the waves did teach.
It’s the bluest of days in this U.S.A
A college of yellow gave our future away
Now a con man’s been throned
And we all are now owned
The reds gold having its sway
There was a false prophet of profits
Their preaching not worth two bits
They spoke in forked tongues
From the greatest of lungs
Yet the crossed didn’t give two shits