Category: wordplay

Historic allegations

‘Lynchpin’ Lynch pinched Lynn
but pinched Lynn didn’t flinch.
Now Lynn won’t budge an inch
till ‘Lynchpin’ Lynch is lynched.


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Poet saves the world!

My twemlows are all home-grown,
my pilbeams are organic.
My recycled leonoras
could save our lovely planet.

I never use a word just once
and throw it in the bin.
Even if it doesn’t fit,
I still can squeeze it in.

Maybe not the best way
to write my silly verse,
but it helps our lovely planet
and, in turn, the universe.


 

The visit

Opoponax O’Malley
will be in town today.
Let’s hear it for Opoponax
and hope that he will stay.

Opoponax is making tracks
for Delmar’s Beer ’n’ Babble.
Let’s hope he won’t be discompoped
by all the milling rabble.

Opoponax is leaving
— I think he’s had enough!
I would’ve thought Opoponax
was made of sterner stuff!

Just twenty beers at Delmar’s
and a burger, fries and shake.
He didn’t even stop off
at Rita’s Country Bake.

Opoponax, Opoponax,
we hope you liked your visit.
Come and see us any time
— it’s not a chore now, is it?


 

Filleted

When I get out I’m gonna shout
from the rooftops and the trees:
‘I didn’t kill the sous-chef
— he tried to fillet me!’

Twenty-seven years in jail
for a crime I didn’t do:
he slipped on a potato
and the fillet knife went through.

I still can hear him gurgling
on that filthy kitchen floor,
and cursing the potato
while he thrashed about in gore.

Now I aim to clear my name,
and unbesmirch my scutcheon,
though remorse is off the menu
— the sous-chef had it coming.


 

Save the twemlow!

Did you know that at the present rate of decline, the twemlow could be extinct within the next 4,000 years?

Have your seamstress fashion a gallipoke for you, and make a strong statement about the wholesale slaughter of the lesser crested twemlow in Nova Zembla.

It doesn’t have to be a calmet or even a pilbeam — just a simple, hand-sewn gallipoke makes a powerful statement in these wicked times.

And remember to Like us on Facebook.


 

My story

About a month after Ellie died I went on a fishing trip to Lake Cheekbyjowl, way up north of here.

I was out on the lake one afternoon when a storm blew up. A nor’easterly came screaming round the bluff at Nokanook Falls and near tore the pines off Sesqueleeguek Ridge. Out on the lake, the water heaved and riled and rolled my boat every which-way, till I was tossing around out there like a cork, and hanging on to the gunwale for dear life. I was near blinded by wind and rain, but I finally made it to shore near Toohahaha and lashed the boat to an old pontoon.  I hunkered down in some scree and brushwood they got there, just below an overhang, and that way I rode out the storm.

I thought about Ellie as I crouched there, how she would’ve said I was a stupid bastard for going out in the first place, how I got what I deserved. She was always more cruel than any storm.  I never said she deserved to get cancer, though I did think it at the time.

Of course, it was nothing but dumb luck that I survived at all: four men died that day on the lake, and two more near the timberline on Mount Davis.

But for me, the biggest loss that day was my old reefer knife, that I’d had since I was a boy. It must’ve slipped through a runnel or something when the water rolled the boat. It had a beautiful clamshell handle, and always cut like a dream, even when it was wet. That knife was a real friend to me for many years, and I don’t have many friends. Don’t need ‘em, do I?

So yeah, that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.