Inherent in the human race are needs to swathe the body in skins of other creatures more furry or more gaudy— leather pants to cover up their lower naked form, with a furry jacket to keep the top half warm.
The entrance to a muskrat’s den is always underwater, which furnishes protection for his mate and son and daughter. Adopting such safe measures is prevalent in those whose shiny coats are popular in making human clothes.
Since I come from where the horses live, you’ll find these words superlative.
More than one savvy equine has told me that it’s asinine to expect a horse to dine on hamburger or pork or fishes, for it goes against his wishes.
If he gives in to your urges, you can soon expect his purges. Burger, hot dog, tail or fin will soon come out where it’s gone in! Don’t seek to change what horses eat, for if you do, you’ll meet defeat.
Even though our fridge is huge since we chose to embiggen it, everything worth munching or gulping down or swiggin’ it seems to always be in back or buried in a pile at the bottom of a stack of foods that we revile.
Of course all of us realize it isn’t too judicious to hide in back the very foods that we find most delicious. We’re in receipt of evidence yet judgement’s been suspended about the guilty family member who’s been apprehended
burying the good food, for though there is no doubt of who hid all the cookies behind the sauerkraut, while we’ve been eating lettuce, the guy who has been “pie”ing it is the selfsame person who, alas, is the one buying it.
A wizard in the kitchen, she performed well her thaumaturgy by transforming porridge into fine cuisine for me. Each dish she served just seemed my hunger to inflate as she put spells on my stomach and magic on my plate.
Her stew pot made by blood boil, her milk pudding made me purr, every single dish a symbol of my love for her. Then lying in her oaken bed, my hunger still intact, She finally quenched my appetite. And that, folks, is a fact!!!!!
I got a hot rod Ford, and a two dollar bill
And I know a spot right over the hill
There’s soda pop and the dancing’s free
So if you wanna have fun, come along with me
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cooking somethin’ up with me?
I’m free and ready, so we can go steady
How’s about savin’ all your time for me? No more lookin’, I know I been tookin’
Hows about keepin’ steady company?
I’m gonna throw my date book over the fence
And buy me one for five or ten cents
I’ll keep it till it’s covered with age
Cause I’m writin’ your name down on every page
Say hey, good lookin’ – what ya got cookin’?
How’s about cookin’ somethin’ up with me?
Grooming tasks inside the the zoo seem to go on forever with so many body parts to clean or trim or sever, but when it comes to manicures, one group must be exempted, for when it comes to ungulates, the groomers are not tempted to attempt to trim the hooves of rhino or of elephant. Even the most burliest of manicurists find they can’t!!!
And in respect to dentistry, though elephants are easy, when it comes to giraffes, zoo dentists are most queasy. Giraffes are not unruly, capricious or uncouth. The problem is the distance between the turf and tooth. And thinning out a lion’s mane simply can’t be done. Relinquishing their hairs? They won’t part with even one.
And every time the groomers’ van goes into parking gear, far up in the shady green, the monkeys disappear. For though every mosquito, every flea and every tick that invades their body may itch or make them sick, inter-monkey grooming is a method sure to please better than the insect sprays, which only make them sneeze!
I’ve found I simply must inure myself to things I must endure. I’m overweight and immature and told my writing is obscure— written in a dialect that people find hard to detect.
I joined a gym, but now my trainer says he cannot make it plainer than to say I won’t lose weight until I choose to fill my plate with other food and smaller portions to decrease present proportions.
I thought if I became a spinner I’d become a weight-loss winner, but in fact, no pounds I’m doffing— only panting, wheezing, coughing. But I didn’t waste the time. At least I came up with this rhyme.
Now perhaps if you’d elect to check my poem’s dialect, you’d find that though my waist and thighs have not decreased in girth or size, perhaps I have lost one small thang. Have I lost, perhaps, my Dakota twang?
Diana Gabaldon’s romances are way too historic. Koolkosherkitchen‘s recipes? Delicious, but caloric. Mo Willems counts on pigeons to chase away the blues, but I’d never volunteer to fill any pigeon’s shoes due to my fear of flying, so even in a pinch, to read of being airborne causes me to flinch.
Can’t read Cormac McCarthy or Murakami either. When violence erupts in books, I have to take a breather. Harlequin romances are too mushily romantic, for I prefer my novels less sexually pedantic. All-in-all you might have guessed I’ve little left to read and so instead I write all day to satisfy my need
to hang out with a word or two that has not been written by writers such as those above by whom I’ve not been smitten. And though my poems aren’t edible or sexually explicit, violent or airborne, I feel it is implicit that I need an appointment with my therapist to see if I can even stomach silly verses penned by me!
The child asked her grandpa to teach her how to spell, and he could not deny her, though he knew good and well that spelling class for him had been a different sort of Hell.
They had not been his forte, the chalk board and the book, and so this was a challenge he timorously took. He had to find a method to help, by hook or crook!
He said to make a menu of all the words she sought and he would make a list of all the spellings they were not— a reverse teaching method that, thankfully, she bought!
So, she gave her assent to all his ballyhoo, discounting his misspellings of “tuthbrush” “taribul” “hoo,” on her route to finding spellings that were new.
Thus she learned to overlook solutions that he sold her in the loving ill-contrived way he sought to mold her and used the dictionary, ruling out spellings he’d told her.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 