All Work and No Play

... makes Jack Nickle's Son insane in the membrane

Normally (did that word come out of MY fingers?) I would just privately email Victory Palace to have a high noon showdown of Poetry as a fun release to break up the monotony of being Press Agents for the Devil.

I’m open to Stackarinos providing either a word or a seed idea on a topic for a poem that He and I then duke it out so that people can either throw pizza and beer at us or give us a thumbs up whilst eating said pizza and beer.

Starter word: Hurricane

The Hurricane Blows, but not as bad as the Government
The Hurricane’s Tolls are not as high as the Government
Tropical depressions might loom over land and mountain rise
But never as deep as what the Govern Meant.

or

We can each start a poem and have the other finish it.

High Noon at the O.K. Coral
Sunlight under waves making a swirl
Victory Palace or I
might prevail or tie
In a Poetry Jam like a Pearl.

or

start stanzas with the rhymes missing:

There once was a man from ____________
Who drove on the interstate and _____________
He never did ___________
Because his full load did ___________
The booth that was slowing down __________________

Boston
Lost A Ton
Fret
Get
Customs

See? stuff like that. Anything like that. Or not.

I would say that I’m bored out of my mind but I would be fact-checked for the archived footage at the Smith’s Son Ian that shows definitively that my mind was professionally removed long, long ago.

I know for a fact that quite a number of the commenters are Word Smiths (the Pain, William, the Payne!) so it would be uber crazy if it turned into a free-for-all. Bearing in mind that some of y’all’s stuff is so good that we would shamelessly steal it to rivet into a Conversion Van Kit.

Ode to Jeannettically Modified

I say: Millie Tarry
You say: Millie Scary
Sometimes you don’t say a word
When your vision doth blur
and sometimes I too am speechless

Who is this Millie Wench
That buggers the gears like a wrench?
Shave that Monkey from our back
Dust if off if it falls in the Crack
Keeping us occupied like a bad case of IBS.

Everyone has ghuns excepting for us
So when they come to your door you won’t make a fuss
Your Money or Your Life
They took both through endless Strife
Then deposited both in accounts of the IRS.

When the Sun Finally Sets
We’ve laid all our bets
That we won’t be following that light anywhere
Just sit under the tree with mad cackling glee
To take a pass on on the Chillie Re-incarn carne.

or: Prose. Prose is good.