(Untitled)

[bo_brylanski]

I may be dirty as a pot,
I may be full of fleas;
I may be dangerous or not
But get down on your knees!

I may crawl in your window
At six o'clock each morn,
Or I may yowl 'til you all wish
That I had ne'er been born--

But worship me, and love me,
And write me every day,
Because I'm your darling Bo,
A lost and lonely stray.

Comments

[tina_tottenham]

Huh?

[bo_brylanski]

It's not a very good poem, but I don't care. At least it rhymes, and it's not abstract or metaphorical.

[tina_tottenham]

Not even! This is not me. But it is special.

[bo_brylanski]

A metaphysician, whose affinities rather with flowers and birds and all enhancing innocencies than with dark human passions, who can think no ill of man or God, and in whom religious gladness, being in possession from the outset, needs no deliverance from any antecedent burden.

The real Olivia Newton Laurence

[tina_tottenham]

Well
Lets get metaphysical

[tina_tottenham]

[tina_tottenham]

Well fancy that...

Wheres the beef?

[tina_tottenham]

This is not a very meaty synopsis.
Perhaps you should go to the source

bad links deserve bad poetry

[bo_brylanski]

So remember who you say you are and keep each puppet clean.
Boys will be boys and play with toys so be strong with your meat.
Oh Anony dear, I think your rather queer, but correct me if you please.

My ANONIMITY absolves me

[tina_tottenham]

The coward deleted his comment.

Mendacity runs rampant in the assumption
of the perpetrator.

What is anonymity but to compound the artifice of identity.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Enough of this Rancidity!

[bo_brylanski]

Only your God can absolve you.

Terminal Confusion is your fate

[tina_tottenham]

Stay stuck in New Joisey

Its where your puny talents
can best manifest themselves