Dane the duck

Ducks on a winter morning

Freezing their feet without warning.

Dane the duck, foot in the puddle,

He can’t move but he’d really like to cuddle.

Quacking to others to help him unstick,

What could they do? They’d have to be quick.

The farmer is coming, his mood sour,

He crushed his finger while he was making flour.

If Dane doesn’t move, he will surely die,

As the object of the wrath of the farmer can’t fly.

Time is ticking, the ducks are quacking

The farmer is coming, the ice isn’t cracking.

Dane prepares for what soon will come,

Gets surprised as he gets some

Kinetic energy from the farmers boot,

Breaks free and gets happy. “Hoot hoot!”

So happy he forgot that he was a duck,

As per his fate and a load of bad luck.

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Tolkien’s ranch

Fantasy stories, films and books,

With orcs and elves and Captain Hooks.

The tiniest difference makes them stand out,

Your dwarves have steam punk? What’s that about?

Well aren’t you special, Middle Earth with steam,

Please tell me your vampires have a tendency to gleam.

The fantasy worlds all live on a farm,

Ran by Tolkien and his strong arm.

He makes sure the breeding goes ok,

Nothing too fancy, nothing non-cliché.

“This one lacks a certain point in the ear…

We don’t take kindly to your kind ‘round here.

Humans as bad guys? Are you crazy?

That’s for orcs, wrong color and lazy!”

As Tolkien went to his rocking chair,

On the veranda and fixed his stare,

Fantasy worlds on his vast fields

Copulated wildly, producing great yields,

Changing a bit, superficially only,

Otherwise they’d be exiled and lonely.

Mr. T smiled as a very happy man,

Everything was going according to his plan.

Shearing sheep

Do they even shear sheep in the summer? I sure as stone don’t know.

When in June it’s blazing hot,

You can’t run or dance foxtrot.

The dogs are panting all day long,

Cats just snooze to the leaves’ calm song.

Pigs in the sty under layers of mud,

Might look dirty but it cools their blood.

The sheep are waiting, ready to be shorn.

That woolly jumpsuit has to be torn.

It’s heavy and it’s hot, can also be grimy,

Like a year-sailing pirate, swab or limey.

They want it off so much that it itches,

Would speed it up with all kinds of riches.

But they’re sheep so their wallets are empty,

Pickpocketing farmers gets a bit tempty.

Thieving sheep ain’t very successful,

Cutting purses with hooves is way too stressful.

So they just wait for the shears to appear,

Those short hours an astronomical year.

When the workers come and the shearing is done,

The sheep run around having fun in the sun,

Roll in the grass and swim in the pond,

Gives them the power of youth and beyond.

Feeling light makes them lambkins again:

Fountain of youth fit for CNN.

The sun can blaze all day if it wants.

Won’t upset sheep cousins, uncles or aunts.

The farmer’s just happy for all that wool,

Makes his wallet not utterly unfull.

The sheep’s new caper presents a good smile,

And he loses his wallet in sheepish ninja style.

Mr. Roof and Mr. Ceiling

My friend dared me to make a rhyme for ceiling. I like the result.

 

I know two misters, Mr. Roof and Mr. Ceiling.

Sometimes they get this pretty happy feeling:

They want to cross their strong, trusty arms

To build farmhouses for farmers farming on farms,

Row houses for rowers who’re rowing for roe,

Bungalows for bungeers bungeeing high and low,

Cottages for cot-dwelling ones with no knowledge,

Manors for the fast ones with manners of wattage,

Ranches for the raunchy ones dressing in ranch,

Shacks for the shaggy ones living on a branch,

Tipis for the tea drinking tits on continent three,

Yurts for the Jürgens riding yaks after-ski.

They’re my pals Mr. roof and Mr. Ceiling,

Mr. Roof and Mr. Ceiling: constructional healing.