More to the point, I think, is the peerless pleasure of an evening stroll on Jesus Green, smoking a good pipe, delighting in the smell of the air and the trees, and watching the smoke lazily curl up into the air to mingle with the uneducated smoke from the chest-nut vendors' stands.

I remember one autumn when I was escorting the Captain's daughter, as she was then, to the boat-houses one fine evening, when a crudely-dressed vagrant began to skilfully gamboll and whistle a lewd tune in front of us. Quick as a flash, I seized a handful of hot coals from a chest-nut stove and flung them against the peasant's rudimentary tunic, which I now saw to be made of oil paintings and straw. The wretched fellow burst into flames at once, shrieking and beating himself about the pate with a frenzy. It was at that very moment that I realised I had forgotten to bring old Harrison's pocket-watch with me. I cursed and double cursed myself.

Well, you can imagine what happened next, so I shan't bore you with the telling. Suffice it to say: the Trinity breakdancing championships were never the same again!

I think "thoughts" is an excellent title for a poeme! We all have thoughts, don't we? -10-

I don't understand why the moon made you into a puppet. Nor do I understand why your shadows lurched 'sheepishly'. Should it be "feet of the sea" or "foot of the sea"? You usually hear people say "at the foot of the mountain", but ne'er "at the feet of the mountain"... or is that wrong?

A colossal exploration of a trapped guff.

Don't listen to rockmage -- I think this is a really great poem! We all get lonely sometimes, don't we? 10!

Dear Goad & tomcheese,

Your conversation was becoming dangerously wacky, so I had nuke it from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

There has not been a more devastatingly accurate description of the sex act since Charles Dickens spent three days inside a whore writing feverishly. -10-

"I was unable to control myself. As I passed him on the gangplank, I shook my fist in his face. 'You pathetic duffer! There isn't a crew! Why don't you just admit that you're a lonely failure? Why continue with this demeaning charade?'

At my outburst, his tears changed colour and flowed the more. He flung his arms over his eyes and rushed below deck, beard dripping with the dew of misery."

'Rawhead & Bloody Bones', by Rhys H. Hughes

A bulging glans of shame.

With no word of complaint, save for the disgustingly self-absorbed, attention-seeking, whining poetry I secrete on a daily basis;
I go on.

Yes, I know the feeling. I was once chosen by the 40th iteration of the Mother Theresa group-sentience to take part in a Diabetes Day parade. God, I hope I never witness anything one-tenth as horrifying again.

The worst part of being "Still Awake" is not the period in which everything is silent, and everyone is sound asleep; it is the period in which you start to hear birds chirping outside. Then you know you're buggered.

I think the hyphen in the last verse should be a comma.

What do you think about your likening a drop of water on a blade of grass to a drop of wax on a candle? One drop for another drop? If this poeme had been about a drop of wax on a candle, would you have likened it to a drop of water on the tip of a blade of grass? If so, then buncombe.

were you a naughty child?

This is one of the best poemes on poemeranker.

toilet

bum

This reminds me of the four years I spent as bo'sun on the treasure scow "Forearms II". Eventually I was discharged for bursting into the officer's mess and stabbing the captain's lobster, dressing up in its boiled pink shell and cavorting and shrieking between the men's bunks until the mate captured me with the emergency jodhpurs. Ah, great days, great days.

Ahh, Winturd. The white season; nestled moistly 'tween the green and the browne... Speaking of browne, I daresay your butterfly is not the only frozen tear in heaven. Have you not heard "The Winturd Tale of Sir Donald Nudesby"? It runs thus, in the Common Tongue...

Footprints linger on the lawn
Where Nudesby trod ere crack of dawn
Then out beyond the seemly parts
and in amongst the compost carts.

There to clench in wooden shack
Ere sweating brow gave way to cack
And buttocks wiped with little care
Leave brownly marks upon his chair.

But footprints leave, and don't return
And Nudesby's fate may cause concern
Young children ought to shield their ears
Whilst women fight to hold back tears:

Through winturd night, and morning frost
It seems that Nudesby has been lost
'tis little wonder that he froze -
Sir Donald Nudesby wore no clothes!

MEDIOCRITY CODE

9004B021

http://www.mycgiserver.com/~prawne/code.jsp?action=decode&thecode=9004B021