Bad Poetry 3: Spring, Davinyook and Boredom

It’s a hot and heavy Sunday threesome in the Bad Poetry circle today! These don’t have critiques to them, so you’ll have to come to your own conclusions…

“Creatures of Spring” by Orin

i saw a squirrel the other day
rooting in a pile of shit
and just to make the best of it

i asked the rodent what was his loss
he tossed his head and said aloud

“alas! i’ve lost my nuts
in this here poo,
you haven’t seen them about,
now have you, tell me true?”

“i have” i lied,
“i saw them in that other pile of crap,
over there. i swear.”

and with that i think
the poor squirrel cried
and ran and jumped with gusto
into the steaming pile of shit
upon the summer ground,
and rolled around all teeth and claws

until i could not distinguish him
at all
from the feces that he was playing in.

and as i walked away
i laughed and teased the rodent to no end
as i cracked his nuts and ate them raw.

“Davinyook the Darvyinook” by Orin

Danvinyook the Darvyinook,
Took the spartle rindle dee,
Yarva nook on dandle hook
and passed the satrum corpus three.

Danvinyook the Darvyinook,
Overlooked the brindly sea,
Harnalt, it took, the grans it shook
From every narvle-grindle tree.

Danvinyook the Darvyinook,
Spoke the mundle vartel pree,
Craldiook, the restil-rook,
Dernied on his jarmick knee.

“Flaming boredom” by Chris

I want to set my leg on fire,
with a match I made from cheese.
A thousand burning woodchucks,
with a match that’s made of cheese.

I clubbed a beaver with my toe,
And rammed its sorry little head,
Into a wicker basket set a light,
by a match I made of cheese.

I ran over an old lady today,
in a fit of rage and fury,
in an economy car made of marshmallows,
Because I used all the cheese for matches.

I draw a clown with bullet wounds,
on the bathroom wall of a Baptist church,
In red ink to symbolize the death of Christ,
Who never really existed,but cheese does.

I worship a block of Gouda in the morning,
bathing in gasoline and Mr.Pibb,
I shove a cigarette in my ear,
And light it with a moldy biscuit.

I run a mayonaise farm in Peru,
and launder dirty mayo-money,
wearing pink pajamas and driving gloves,
And a party hat on my nose.

I walk around and rape the turtles,
that wander into my bathroom,
and tie them up with nylon parachutes,
just to have some company.

My neighbor’s colon tells me a story,
about a princess and prince without kidneys,
who gave up their homeland to some gypsies,
because they wanted to photograph rotten tumors.

I sit around and wish that someday,
I won’t be so bored that I have to type,
very bad prose like this on a daily basis,
on a laptop made of cheese.