Hickory trickery

I bought what I thought was a chair.

Beautiful hickory, exquisite and rare.

The man who sold it, Fleet-Foot Sal,

Next to the factory by the canal.

Sal said it was made by his very own dad,

Who, I heard, went just a bit mad.

I took the chair home as a proud owner,

Admired its luster and down-to-earth toner.

Preparing to use it for the first time,

I baked oat cookies with a hint of lime.

While I was busy, kneading away,

The chair stirred slightly, let out a neigh,

Escope through the window without a trace,

While I was busy, stuffing my face.

Half of the dough made it into the oven,

And while they were there roasting in their coven,

Anticipating, I went back,

Saw what happened, let out a small quack.

So that’s what they meant with a crazy carpenter,

Shouldn’t have trusted the Cheat You Center.

Oh my sweet thing, my pretty hickory,

I was caught by Sal’s standard trickery.



I love you, I love you, my dear oats.

My affection is deeper than medieval moats.

You taste so good with sugar or salt,

Giving me your all, I can’t find a fault.

Boiled in water you feed me in the morn,

Removing the night time hunger’s thorn.

In a sugar flour mix and baked real well,

You conjure up the most tastiest smell.

My teeth love you as much as I do,

The feeling they get biting into

Your oaty texture is entrancing,

When I feel it I can’t stop dancing.

If oats are my love, then can’t you say,

That eating one’s love is a monstrous display?

Therefore I think that calling this love,

Is like calling a cowboy boot a glove.

Yes, they do have a lot in common,

But to tell them apart you don’t need a lawman.

Calf consciousness

Yesterday I did sports with all my might,

Now my skin feels way too tight.

I fell asleep tired and satisfied,

While something awoke right by my side.

That something was my left calf muscle

Gaining consciousness without the slightest rustle.

A new mind born in the middle of the night,

Stuck to my leg, thus filled with spite.

How would you feel as a newborn life,

Who had a knee act as the midwife?

Existential crisis as its first thought,

It became desperately overwrought,

Died of emotional traumatic stress,

Returned to its previous lifelessness.

Later I woke up to break my fast,

Oblivious to everything that  had just passed.

I Noticed, what looked like dried up tears,

The kind containing the sadness of years.

Shrugged and paid it no more mind,

My head was already me-me-me-lined.


Friend reassembly

My friend broke and she was reassembled,

As she did this, the doctor trembled.

“Done and done, let’s hope it’s ok,

It’s not my strong suit, assembling for pay.

I skipped the classes in Medical school,

I concentrated on different types of drool.”

I talked to my friend who just woke up,

“Are you ok, drink from this cup.”

Taking a sip, my friend said this:

“.Ko ma I” and ended with a hiss.

Not understanding, I looked puzzled,

Hearing a sound of water being guzzled.

“.tops eht ith tahT” I heard, just staring,

“?tahW ?pu s’tahW” With me just glaring.

“You’re talking the wrong way around right now,

With ends where starts should be, at the bow.

I think you need a re-reconstructed,

So get back to sleep and let her work unobstructed.”

Blue tack

Sometimes when I find a blue tack piece,

I show it to my nephew or my niece.

They bite into it as kids often will,

With a big smile, move in for the kill.

Bite into blue tack, not that hard,

Leave their print on its skin, now scarred.

After this, I make me a mold,

With their tooth prints of which I have hold.

For future reference in case of biting,

I’ll use my tooth print database for citing.

I can clear up a fight if one comes up,

Determine immediately the bite-happy pup.

Now all I need is same for the fingers,

They are the bestest cookie-theft-singers.

Traditions are stones

Everyone I talk to likes their traditions,

Little ones like having their family physicians,

Big ones like what to do on 25th December,

And where you can go if you are a member.

Traditions are stones, they can be pretty,

Lighten your day just like a small kitty,

Can be heavy and weigh you down,

Not having the vote in your small town,

They can be costly, like buying a robe,

Or its equivalent around our great globe.

Traditions are stones, can be a foundation,

Good or bad for a people or a nation.

Traditions are stones, they can be thrown

To make any situation overblown.

Traditions are stones, they can’t be eaten,

If they go away, something bad will be beaten.

Wi-Fi appetite

A camera to do some video recording,

I was suspicious, and it was rewarding,

I set it up in my one-room flat’s ceiling,

Because I had this mistrustful feeling.

I played the tape and saw what went on:

When it was getting quite close to the dawn,

My phone and pc started talking,

I upped the volume and did some stalking.

They were talking about the Wi-Fi connection,

Where it’s best, the tastiest reception.

Apparently right next to the router not,

The taste over there is “a bit too hot”.

They said the best is over by the bed,

Enough to go around, soft and red.

Under the table it’s too watered down.

Now I know and they will no longer frown.

On my bed is where they’ll be,

This surveillance action helped me see.