Author: Mike Crowl

A MISS disguised as midshipman was made to walk the
PLANK. The narrow plank stuck wobbly out o’er the
LOWLY sea. ‘No bloke am I,’ she cried, ‘but dainty, beauteous CORAL.’ The pirates caught her quickly and took her out to tea.    

CHART the state of my heart: I hate to be so
ELATEd, but the unblunted beauty of her
HAZEL eyes has paralyzed me. I
REACT with startling palpitations, sticks in the
SPOKEs of my bike. !Smash! I want to
TAK ‘ER in my arms and hold ‘er. Excuse the
TROLL-like language, but my ‘eart,
WRUNG, has unglued every other part.       

UNDUE bills don’t bother me, don’t make me
PALER than before. I snap my fingers at them,
QUELL not my heart, and take no notice of their
GUISE as bills that truly quell, empale, because they’re due.           

TIGHT as the night is black,
SHOWY as a flowery border,
BRICK-thick as Oamaru stone, is
ARDOR without order.         

I don’t know if you’ve heard the BLURT
of a skittering, flittering, twiddling QUAIL,
amongst the sifting shifting SHAPE
of its quail flock. Well, the sound my mind it kind of STUNG.

My
BIRTH, some decades ago, unheralded, dismissed,
EVADEd history books, almanacs and the like, brought no
GUILT to anyone, no disaster, or distress, no
QUOTH the priest, ‘This child is destined for great things.’

AS KEW was to some the garden of perfection
BOOZE was my place of circumspection; me, the
PAYEE of drink’s full garbage collection, refuse none could
REUSE.

CHIME of the doorbell, race to the door. Only a
FLYER, oh what a bore! But here’s a surprise, a
LUMEN is more than a lightbulb’s measure, it’s
VALIDly the intestine’s inner space also. Cor!