Dooming a Dutchman

You doomed a Dutchman to fail the tulip season

In Holland that is equivalent to treason.

The bulbs of the Dutchman will never sprout

He’s in jail and he might get out

When Holland is no more under the threat

Of masses of water, cunning and wet.

To be fair, in your defense,

It doesn’t make that much, or at all, sense

That you shouldn’t wash them thoroughly before

You store them in a cupboard for a year or more.

Now, instead of bulbs, he only found mold,

Which might be worth a tiny bit less than gold.

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Sawdust in the air

I was sawing some planks into pieces today, and this started playing in my head to the tune of Walking in the air, composed by Howard Blake.

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

My lungs are full of it, as well as are my eyes

 

I already lost my sight

And it burns like hell, it’s true

The sky, it now looks brown, for me not perfect blue

 

The fungi and the mold

Have found their brand new home in me

Took over everything, from forehead to my knee

 

I cough blood in the night and I scratch my eyes

My throat is dry, my sheets are red, a wonderful surprise

 

Sawdust in the air

My head feels so very light

The noises far away, the lamps always so bright

 

The doctors say, it’s too late, what happens now, we know

I don’t believe, this is real, it can’t be my time yet to go

 

Sawdust in the air

Floating in the clear, blue sky

Like the sawdust did for me, the clouds are passing by

Barbarian eggplant vampire chutney

Some people say that limericks are the lazy person’s DIY solution to poetry. They might be correct, as I tend to be quite lazy and I wrote three just now. However, I like limericks, as the form and rhythm are beautiful, and I hope that a surprising topic choice ensures that they are something more than a bunch of clichés. Don’t pay any attention to the fact that the form is all over the place. Or to the fact that the rhymes are ham-fisted. Otherwise they’re pretty ok. Maybe.

 

I bought a car made of chutney.

The seats covers and seats, they were muttoney.

It drove fine in the cold,

But in May the blue mold,

Made it smell like an unwashed, old butt… -ney.

 

The comfy coffin of a vampire child,

Disowns all things brutal and wild.

He’s had flat screens installed

And you know he skype-called

His old-fashioned dad, now exiled.

 

A tomato, the one you eat with cheese,

Is “barbarian eggplant” in literal Chinese.

No wonder it’s red,

As it strikes its foes dead,

And steals their provisions with ease.

Connected

I don’t think my brain is all connected.

Sensory input is not well directed.

Ice cream on my tongue and I hear punk,

Playing the guitar I feel all drunk.

Feeling the heat of my frying pan,

I saw a vision of my friend Stan.

It got disconnected, at least I think,

When I sat the pile of dishes in the sink.

The china had turned green,

Like a lean mean killing machine.

I stood there and stared at the sight,

I wanted to cook, now I’ll starve all night.

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.