The origin of my mood grim

Lindy Loo? Oh how she’s dim!

Just yesterday said she on a whim:

“goodness gracious me you’re slim!

My oh my, how you look trim!

Have you frequented the gym?”

Aghast was I at this creature prim

with skin of marble porcelain.

Has Lindy Loo been on the Gin?

Before my mood (now grave and grim)

was shattered by a further synonym,

with face chagrin to Lindy dim:

“Ms. Loo…. I’ve lost a limb!!”

What of Dinner?

My father said to me one day

“You must never lie or fib.”

And from that day on and on

Lies never tell I did!

One day he asked me “What of dinner?”

(it was rice and curried goat)

I swallowed once, prepared my answer

confidently cleared throat:

“It’s the worst thing I’ve tried

In my eleven years alive.

It tastes like rubber stewed in hummus,

it tastes like regurgitated  stomach.

It smells like Grandma’s eggplant truffles,

the ones that killed Mr. Muffles!

It sounds like my feet in mud

sticky, slurping full of sludge.

It feels like brains, the dumber kind,

it should be arrested, charged a fine.

It’s so disgusto gross it hurts!

That being said: what’s for dessert?