Once the polar ice has melted and the animals departed, It’s only right that we continue on with what we’ve started. It will be the biggest news that humankind has won. We’ll eradicate the universe, and our job will be done!
I knew him as a rowdy member of our town constabulary, noted for his bumbling but not lauded for vocabulary. So when he whispered “pulchritudinous” with raspy voice though he could have just said, “beautiful,” I wondered at his choice. He could have called me riveting or gorgeous or just cute. All those other adjectives I never would refute. But when a noted doofus picks his words from a thesaurus, I fear it has no other kinder effect than to jar us. The fact that he would woo me being nothing but absurd, nonetheless he might have won me if he’d used a different word!
He shook his bag of marbles at me in a jocular fashion. It seems this childhood game is his secret guilty passion. He had faith that eventually I would slake his thirst, in spite of my conviction that marbles is the worst game ever invented, for you see rampant sciatica coupled with my daily dependence on Sal Hepatica made my kneeling difficult, uncomfortable, and rendered it most difficult, afterwards, to stand.
But his most stubborn diligence in begging for a bout at last contradicted my reluctance and my doubt. I picked me out a shooter and commenced to knuckle down— the fact we played for keepsies occasioning my frown. But it seems I am a prodigy—most artful with my thumb. It wasn’t very long until he realized how dumb it was to introduce me to this game that hurt my ribs bending low to shoot at his dragonflies and mibs.
First I won his cats eye and then I won his aggie. And when I won his shooter, I fear I became braggie. In the end, I won at that game that he called ringer by making a maneuver that proved to be a zinger. And my friend the marble shark paid for all his sins as I emptied out his marble sacks and emptied out his bins. I left with all his marbles rattling in my tin, grateful that he’d never ask to play the game again!
I’m suffering from reluctance and a bit of perturbation that is interfering with my blog’s administration. Embarrassed for this rhyme, I’ve no proclivity to flout it. I’m sure my stats will plummet. There is no doubt about it.
We’ll ascribe the blame to Ragtag, for “orgulous” is the word they’ve chosen for our prompt today—a choice that is absurd. Who uses it in common speech, or formal speech, in fact? Any poem I used it in, I’d afterwards redact.
I’m not a jolly blogger. I’m delaying activation. I feel no need to add to my reader’s education by using words requiring their use of dictionaries. I prefer clear writing that requires no further queries.
It’s habit that demands that I find a way around this. But now I feel no further need to otherwise expound this. I’ve flailed around in writing this. I edit and I stumble. Tomorrow may they choose a word that is a bit more humble!
Lions don’t do well in a setting too bucolic. Their herding instinct’s lethal and they flunk in ovine frolic. Lions need to stalk and kill. They need open savannas. They’d eat all the lambs and for dessert, eat all their nannas! And if we shut the lions up, they’d go into decline. Living in small cages simply isn’t leonine. Lions need to roam the plains lest they become pathetic. There’s nothing half so sad as a lion that’s apathetic.
Oh no. I somehow erased the pingbacks for the four prompts for this poem! Thanks to okcforgottenman for pointing this out. Well, better late than never. The prompt words were lion, apathetic, shut and bucolic.
My love is not a work of art. He hasn’t any poise. When he tries to sing a song, it comes across as noise. He writhes instead of dancing. His rhythm’s nonexistent. When germs land upon him, if they are nonresistant, they get sick instead of him, for they have met their match. He has no hair upon his head except for one small batch that grows out of each nostril, so I really needn’t mention that when it comes to loving him, I have no competition. Yet in spite of all, he coincides with my fond wishes. He may not have much cooking, but at least he does the dishes!
And for a little musical accompaniment to the poem, go HERE.
Youth days at the aquarium are inimical to fishes, for students feed the goldfish far beyond our wishes. They agitate the sharks and rays by knocking on the glass. They irritate the piranhas and terrorize the bass. Scientific discovery is great for teens and tots, but part of education is discovering the “nots.” I think we’ll bring an ending to this day at the aquarium, and for your next school outing would you please choose the terrarium?