May those who scorn this rickety hearse. Of ghastly verses be compelled,. By blackest magick blackly spelled,. To read it nightly, verse by verse,. And each time find its contents worse. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Twitter account. Notify me of new comments via email. Suite in a Minor Key.

A Mouthful of Verses by Lou Stooth. The Birds and the Butterflies. For Mother, On Her Birthday.

The coal in your stocking, The rust on your sleigh, The rocking chair rocking, Then breaking away, Are all of them better Than anything here In this big scarlet letter Of sick Christmas cheer. Leave a Reply Cancel reply. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Twitter account.

Make rigor and vigor your pleasure. And scales too even to measure. Receiving a blast from the pass, He runs down the field at full gas.

A pretty little triolet Wears orange, red, and black. Holding a yellow violet, A pretty little triolet, While Lily plays a violette, Ballets about and back. A pretty little triolet Wears orange, red, and black. Die on a gray day. Oilwater pooling in the road.

I play your track again. It hits a scratch And skips a scratch and skips a scratch and skips And skips forward through the scratches patch. It plays, then hits another scratch and trips Backward and trips backward and trips backward It drives me fucking nuts! I hit STOP.

How sad it is to ail in the spring,. To feel amid the blooming your decline,. To feel a shiver rattle down your spine. While sunshine pours and singing birds take wing. Sickness should be a frigid, winter thing,. A quarantined repose of cold repine. By fresh delight and wealthy harvesting;. For sickness fits in spring like rain in shine. And never more does sickness have a sting.

For Mother, On Her Birthday.