Poetry With A Mission

...a thought provoking poetical exercise.


It's Strange

“Yes, I’m as happy as a flea in a sand-pit,” he said,
But how would he know, I thought, which left me scratching my head.
“I’m a box of birds,” she chirped, which didn’t make sense to me,
So, lest I ruffled her feathers, I just smiled tactfully.

“He’s always blowing his own trumpet," she said, disapprovingly,
And so he should, I mumbled, lest he give his germs to me.
“I’ve been hanging about all day,” he muttered angrily,
And yet, his collar looked fine, and everything sat neatly.

“Could you run me into town,” she asked, but eyed me oddly
When I started jogging beside her, kind of protectively.
“He lead me on a merry dance,” she said, which sounded nice,
So I smiled and said, “Lucky you,” — got a stare as cold as like ice.

“I just don’t know whether I’m coming or going,” he said,
And then, without a second thought, continued on ahead.
“I’ve got mixed feelings,” she confided, which I hadn’t realized,
So I gave her a chest of drawers so she’d be more organized.

“I’m lost for words,” she said, then oddly, kept talking to me,
But when she said, “My lips are sealed,” it baffled me completely.
“I’m all shook up,” he said, so I asked him if he were Elvis,
But he didn’t seem to hear, just went on about his pelvis.

“I’ve been climbing the wall,” he said, but no ladder was in sight,
So I said he could borrow mine — next thing, he got uptight.
“It’s time you branched out,” he said, which didn’t seem wise to me,
For then I’d be out on a limb, rather perilously.

“Yes, you could have knocked me over with a feather,” she said,
Which had me quite worried, so I bought her a loaf of bread.
“I’ve been down in the dumps,” he groaned, which somewhat bothered me,
So I covered my nose — opened a window hastily.

“I can only play by ear,” she said, which really concerned me,
Lest her ear catch in some strings, or on a rough piano key.
“He’s inclined to fly off the handle,” she said, worriedly,
“Well, tell him to hold on tighter,” I replied, helpfully.

“It’s time to bury the hatchet,” she said, which had me worried,
So off in the other direction I quickly hurried.
“If I wanted his help, I would have to grease his palm,” he said,
So I bought some butter and did that — boy, did he see red.

“He’s foaming at the mouth, and I don’t know what to do?” she cried,
“Well, just tell him not to use so much toothpaste,” I replied.
“He has a big chip on his shoulder,” I heard her declare,
So I told her to flick it off, not go leaving it there.

Yes, it’s strange, isn’t it?

By Lance Landall