There was an old man with a hat,
Who was confused and thought it a cat,
So he gave it some meat and milk as a treat,
Then he put it outside for a crap.
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I am a Vampire, he said staring at her,
A very old Vampire, you can tell by my skin,
My eyes and expression give also a hint,
While my pointed, sharp teeth give more than a hint.
I can see by your skin, he answered, I do,
And also your eyes and expression; it’s true,
But the stare on your face has cast a strange spell,
Making me trust you, despite not feeling well.
Still staring at her, the Vampire replied,
You’d never believe me; you’d think I had lied,
If the stare on my face was gone; it’s a fact,
No one would trust this salty old Cat.
Without offering her a chance to reply,
The Vampire went on with his horrible lie,
Then, creeping closer and closer on the cold deck,
He pounced, lashed out, and bit her bare neck.
Feeling the hurt and the blood running down,
She said, I was such a daft clown,
To have trusted a Vampire because of his look,
Drained of all blood, my life is forsook!
One Golden Groat to spend in the mystical kingdom of Onishia
(see Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU)
Good times are coming, I know they are near,
The best times, for sure, in a number of years;
I’m counting each day on my fingers and thumbs,
Until the recession has passed and the bad times have gone.
Then, when the money is flowing again,
I will thank those people, both women and men,
Who stood up to the bankers and politicians; it’s true,
That saved us, how they saved us, from a life in the poo.
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Arnie the apple hung from a tree
in an orchard a mile wide.
And every day the pickers would come
and haul dozens of apples inside.
They’d pick the prettiest of the bunch,
filling their baskets and pails.
But they always passed by Arnie,
ignoring his whines and wails.
“Please pick me!”, Arnie would cry
each time the pickers sauntered by.
“I want to go inside with you!”,
cried Arnie till he turned bright blue.
But the pickers ignored him day after day,
while Arnie hung there in dismay,
trying to nurse his shattered pride,
dying to be picked to be taken inside.
Each new dawn he’d do a trick
like spinning around on his twig.
But the picky pickers never stopped
for apples that weren’t big
or juicy or red or bright or sweet.
Poor Arnie was none of these things.
He wasn’t completely quite full grown
and he had some nicks and dings.
He dreamed what it was like inside;
lights and music all around.
Arnie just wanted to go there so badly
he flung himself to the ground.
The next day the pickers came along
and saw him lying there.
They took him inside and Arnie thought,
“This is it! I’m finally there!”
But when Arnie the Apple looked around
he realized his dreams were false,
’cause in less than 15 minutes
he was Arnie Applesauce.
(C) 1998, Arden Davidson