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Daily Archives: July 14, 2025

The Sword and the Slug

The Sword and the Slug

The Sword and the Slug
(A Less-Than-Epic Tale)

In a land full of peril and dragons and doom,
A hero once swaggered (with barely a groom),
He carried a sword made of glitter and grit,
And thought he was grander than just a bit.

But lo! From a puddle (or possibly bog),
There squelched a great terror: a gargantuan slug.
It slimed its way forward with menacing squish,
Demanding a duel—and a side of fresh fish.

The hero stood tall and announced with a roar,
“I’ll cut you to jelly, you gelatinous bore!”
The slug blinked just once (for it only had one),
Then slurped up a hedgehog—just for some fun.

They circled and danced in a comical way,
The slug doing oozes, the swordman ballet.
With a slip and a squelch and a slippery slide,
The hero tripped backwards and bruised his poor pride.

The slug gave a shrug (well, as much as it could),
And offered a treaty: “We’re both rather good.
You’re shiny and loud, I’m just gooey and great—
Let’s open a snack shack and call it a date.”

Now deep in the woods near the croak of a frog,
There’s a bistro well-known: The Sword and the Slug.
They serve up fine puddings and dandelion stew—
And they’ll duel you for dessert (but only if you).

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in slug story

 

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Crystals Lament

Crystals Lament

The Crystal Collector’s Lament

I bought a rock, it cost a ton—
The seller said, “It catches sun!”
“It heals your soul, unblocks your fate,
And balances your dinner plate!”

It sparkles like a disco ball,
It’s shaped a bit like Grandpa’s gall.
She said it came from deepest Peru—
(It smells suspiciously like glue.)

She gave me jade to calm my spleen,
And citrine for my self-esteem.
A smoky quartz to “ground my vibe,”
And something called “celestial bribe.”

Now I’ve got crystals in my socks,
Crystals stuffed in tiny boxes,
Crystals taped beneath my chair,
And one that lives inside my hair.

Do they work? I cannot say—
But I trip on them every day.
Still, I keep on buying more…
Because—well—magic rocks are hard to ignore.

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in crystals

 

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Australia, the Ancient Flame

Australia, land of golden sun,
Where oceans clash and rivers run,
A continent both wild and wide,
With desert heart and coastal pride.

From Uluru’s majestic rise
To where the Great Barrier Reef lies,
A land of stories, old and deep,
That whisper while the gum trees sleep.

The kookaburra laughs at dawn,
Kangaroos leap through fields of corn,
While platypus in rivers glide,
And wombats burrow deep and hide.

The Dreaming sings through rock and sand,
A sacred thread across the land,
Aboriginal voices strong—
A culture ancient, proud, and long.

Beaches stretch like endless gold,
Where surfers brave and dolphins roll,
While in the outback, red and bare,
The blazing heat just hangs in air.

Sydney shines with harbour light,
Melbourne hums through day and night,
Rainforests thick, and snowfields white—
Australia dazzles left and right.

Oh, southern land of blazing blue,
With heart so fierce and spirit true,
You hold a charm no words can bind—
A sunburnt soul, free and unconfined.

 
 

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There Once was a Slug called Reilly

There Once was a Slug called Reilly

There Once Was a Slug Called Reilly

There once was a slug called Reilly,
Who slid through the world quite spryly.
He wore a small hat,
And was terribly fat,
But danced in the moonlight so wily.

He sloshed through the soup of the garden,
With manners that begged your pardon.
He’d twirl on a leaf,
Like a slug ballet chief,
Then bow with a wink from the lardon.

His dreams were of glitter and fame,
Of topping the gastropod game.
He practiced his spin,
With a half-gooey grin,
And signed autographs with his name.

The beetles all clapped with delight,
As Reilly danced deep in the night.
He jiggled with flair,
Like jelly mid-air—
A mollusc with style and might!

So if you should spot a slow trail,
All silvery, sparkled, and pale,
It might just be he,
In arthropod glee,
Still chasing his showbiz tale.

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2025 in slug story

 

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The Crazymad Writer

The Crazymad Writer

The Crazymad Writer

In a tumbledown tower of ink and dreams,
Where nothing is ever quite what it seems,
Lives the Crazymad Writer, pen in hand,
Scribbling truths no one could understand.

He writes on toast, on cats, on air,
With paper hats and electric hair,
His slippers are books, his robe a rhyme,
He juggles with words, and swallows time.

He mutters in riddles, whispers in song,
Argues with commas that do him wrong,
His teacups hold oceans, storms, and tea,
And sometimes a ghost or a spelling bee.

“Reality’s boring!” he says with a grin,
Then peels off the sky and folds it in,
He talks to a chair, and the chair talks back—
They once wrote a sonnet about a yak.

Each story he spins is a curious thread,
Tied to a jellyfish, stitched to the dead,
The moon takes notes as he scribbles away,
And suns rise backwards just for a day.

He’s mad as a lorry that thinks it’s a hat,
But the world would be dull without people like that.
So if ever you find a tale strange and wild,
You’ve met the Crazymad Writer’s child.

 

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