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.

There once was a he-man named Donna. He spanked it and dirked it. And yanked it and jerked it. While reading The Gods of Pegāna. There once was a shaman named Muckt Who tickled teased probed blew and sucked The mind universal In a role-play reversal, Becoming both fucker and fucked.

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.