Author: Mike Crowl

How wrong of her to throw her THONG
At my plein air painting on the EASEL,
producing an inartistic, mundane STAIN – still
DODGE the thong henceforth I fain.  

CRAZEd and painted young people raising Cain at the
LUNAR eclipse; why Cain, long dead, needs raising by
YOUTH as a zombie is anybody’s guess; in their defence
maybe most of their brains are short of a few PENCE?       

MEDAL stuck firmly in place over my heart, I
THREW a delightfully witty bon mot at my mate. The
FIEND, he threw another back and nearly knocked me off my PERCH!         

Out my from mouth go the false TEETH,
into my my bedroom I waltz, SCOOP
up my body into my bed and
LAYER the sheet, duvet, above me, feet unto snout, RELAX.

CHEEK to cheek with a sleek snake, I
SMELT something few can smell: its
VENOM. The smell might be called weak,
SMALL, in the scale of things, even pip-squeak.

TONAL, not toenail, you daft ‘apeth!
“CURVE your anger, Mr C, you’re not at home now. No
RAVEN at me all I’ll have to tell security
DECAL the police. We won’t like that, will we?”

FREER than a giraffe splayed and stuck, (does a giraffe have a
NAVEL? I’m asking for a friend) I stand tall above riff-raff who
QUAIL at my height, as a bevy of quails look naff when fleeing, until SPLAT! my legs choregraph in a flat-footed gaffe, face-palm on the mat.

This verse might have an end that’s SMOKY –
I might need my mouth out to rinse,
since I’m convinced that should I say, WOMEN,
as well as men, can do things BADLY,
I’d be vilified as much as Edward, the Black Prince;
the triggering thus aroused would make me WINCE.

I found an ASCOT SHAWL on a SHRUB, COMMA.
(SHRUB SHAWL from ASCOT, COMMA, is difficult to say.)
Is there an ASCOT COMMA as well as an Oxford one? No idea. I SHRUB my shoulders, shift my SHAWL.           

You smudge a man’s name, threaten with EXILE,
and do it while turning the Law into FUDGE.
You howl at the thought that his thoughts should be SMART,
Your malevolence rising at his contrastive VOWEL.