Friday, August 3, 2012

Poetic Potato



Strolling along Bar Beach one day I saw this written sign,
And it seemed to me that it portrayed an attitude quite fine.
Most people who are selling chips keep strictly to the point......
See 'Get your chips for fifty cents!' written outside the joint.
But here we have a poet who happens to cook chips,
Even while Keats and Shelley's words are hovering on his lips!
Hear his words! Hear 'burnished gold'! Surely, in your mind's eye,
You see a thing of beauty that you simply can't pass by.
Hear 'fluffy cloud'! And see, at once, a glorious chip-interior!
Long to sink your teeth in it, knowing full-well it's superior!
To have the soul of a poet yet be elbow-deep in oil,
Destined to spend ones waking hours in greasy, smelly toil!
I he chops and fries does he let his soul go flying
Up into the azure blue, far, far away from frying.
I bought his chips, enjoying them far more because I knew
These words were not just poetry,
They were were definitely TRUE!

(A Nightmare)

Whispering .......and that whispering seems
Hushed, yet echoing in my dreams.
Intimate, it's very near
Softly speaking in my ear.
Patiently, throughout the night,
Ever murmuring 'Wrong is right'.
Repeating ever and again
'Submit, and you will feel no pain.'

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