Your life’s not a chore.
Stop tallying score.
We all have a bull
who is chasing our cape.
We’ve all missed the mark
when flipping our crepe.
Just hold your head high
and walk with some swagger.
Tickle your pain
and you’ll surely get laughter.
There was once a little girl
No one could pronounce her name
so they’d spell it out instead.
Poor little a-b-c-d-e-f-g-h-i-j-k-l-m-n-o-p-q-r-s-t-u-v-w-x-y-zed
(let’s call her Alphabeta).
Her twenty six lettered name
proved to be an alpha-dilemma!
At school her teacher would call on her
(a task rife with verbal indigestion).
By the time she’d finished she would think:
“now just what was my original question!?”
As she grew (just like her name)
Alphabeta would still point & answer with description.
Insightful commentary it was indeed
for anyone who’d listen.
Pointing to her Aunt Maybelline:
“heart, lungs, liver & spleen”
Pointing to a cake at the baker’s counter:
“egg, vanilla, sugar, & a bit of flour.
Poor little Alphabeta
became quite the subject of town gossip.
“Did you hear what she said to Father Jon?
“Toupee & init for a profit!”
Granny smirking in her chair,
a suspicious Granny sitting.
Oh my dentures!
Have you seen
just what Granny’s knitting!?
The early bird may get the worm
but the late bird gets them thrice.
(Worms wearing pajamas
taste very, very nice).
My enemies are gloating.
My expression reads revolting.
My cerebellum’s overdosing
on synapses guilty yet consoling.
My concentration is chaperoning
a tendency for disrobing.
My intuition is foreboding
of an expletive offloading.
My brain is emphatically bemoaning
the state of affairs under my clothing.
My conversation is engrossing
to the dead and always moaning.
When you sneeze, oh the rapture!
To be showered post ah-choo.
A night heeding your nasal snores?
Spilleth over my love stew.
With each of your lurching hiccups
Oh how I do love you more.
To count your moles till the end of time?
Bliss, mon amour.
Your backsplash post garggle.
Your molars mid yawn.
With every scratch you satisfy
My world turns right from wrong.
There’s an itch lurking up my nostril
waiting to be scratched when it deems fit.
There’s a chuckle in my belly
awaiting a stroke of genius wit.
There’s a tap poised inside my tip toe
a snap in my finger does loom.
Both await the same presence:
the tempo of a catchy tune.
There are two shivers in my spine
standing politely in a queue.
Each is poised to shiv away
in a moment deja vue.
Ready for a handsome stranger
in my left eye does stand a wink.
There’s one sitting in right eye too,
together they do make a blink.
The “what do you do?” inquiry
is exactly two words short to me.
Stop not there, add in “and why?”
and learn from who to briskly flee.