Posts filed under “Poetry”

THE KEYWORD SONG.

If you’re looking for a keyword, here it is.
It’s the very finest keyword in the biz.
     It’s the what-you-want-to-see word,
     It’s the perfect made-for-me word:
If you’re looking for a keyword, here it is.
So:

Chorus:
Keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, hey!
Keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, ho!

If you think you need a keyword for your site,
Just sit down and keyword this with all your might.
     Choose your what-you-want-to-be word
     And you’ll never have to reword
If you think you need a keyword for your site.
So:

Chorus:
Keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, hey!
Keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, keyword, ho!

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THE DAY I LAST SAW ELEANOR.

Rumored to be a deliberately lost work of Edgar Allan Poe.

The day I last saw Eleanor, 
     It was the day she died;
Though some say still she walks the moor
Between the hours of three and four
(I don’t know what she does it for)
     Along the banks of Clyde.

The day I last saw Eleanor,
     She sniffed with wounded pride,
And handed me an apple core,
And told me, “Thus far, and no more,”
Concluding, “Now you know the score:
     You will not be my bride.”

The day I last saw Eleanor,
     She strode with purposed stride
Toward the billows’ haughty roar
And strode right past the pimpled shore
Till she was out a mile or more
     And swallowed by the tide.

Long since I left that cursed shore;
     Long since my clothes have dried.
And since my story makes you snore,
I tell you this, and tell no more:
The day I last saw Eleanor,
     It was the day she died.

FRAGMENT OF A POEM BY
IRVING VANDERBLOCK-WHEEDLE.

Poet and novelist Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle had a fortunate escape this week when his office at Duck Hollow University caught fire. The world of literature, however, was not so fortunate. This charred scrap of paper is all that remains of the long poem Mr. Vanderblock-Wheedle had been working on for the last three years.

—to whom
But the groom?
And the broom, I assume.
But still, to resume:
From the dark weeds that bloom
Where the dank shadows loom
Comes the straggling fume of a sickly perfume
In the gloom of my womb-like tomb of a room;
Then something goes boom,
And I flee from my doom,
And I get in my car and I rev it, vroom vroom,
And I step on the pedal and fly—zoom zoom zoom!
And I spill down the hill like a log in a flume,
Vowing never to stop till I get to Khartoum,
And I—

Police and fire investigators say they are proceeding under the assumption that the fire was set deliberately.

THE MAN OF A THOUSAND FACES.

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FREE VERSE.

My verse is free when it’s constrained.
It must be disciplined and trained
To ramble with abandoned glee:
    So true it is that freedom isn’t free.

That thought should take its wings from form
Is no exception, but the norm.
I cannot run without my feet
    (Which is a pun that’s really rather neat).

Through scribbling poems at last I’ve found
That freedom’s freest when it’s bound;
And what is true in poems is true
    Superlatively when I’m bound to you.

I’m only free to be the me
I think I really ought to be
If I am yours and you are mine.
    So—hem—well—will you be my valentine?