From: Dale Malone
Subj: Kicking the Cat
Of recent days, and ofttimes
I allowed my fingers their fancy flights,
Signed on a board, and then to choose,
Conferences galore, but one has mews.
For there in FLAME resides the
Wild words fly, some shot from our hip,
Deranged minds, some are tried and true,
Form the pieces that makeup the stew.
The strangest one is Mr. Stokes,
Butt of all our Christian jokes,
To hear him tell, it's off to hell,
Everyone goes, truth cannot dispel.
But when he states his morbid
Appears to us he is mouthing turds,
From what diseased fount come spewing out,
Mamma taught no manners to this country lout.
But now he's gone to return no
God has snared him from this mortal shore?
Time has slowed and now he's gone,
His words still linger in memories anon.
As much as I think this guy's a
Hope it is that might he still lurk,
Not to revert to that demon booze,
His soul to hell, his audience to lose.
So if you read these words of wit,
Come, back by our side, there to sit,
As much as your words are silly all,
Your being gone seems worse a pall.
Your crooked bent and sickly mind,
Bad it t'were but wounds we bind,
Come back to us and share your pain,
Just spout your fodder don't tax your brain.
When the sun doth set, its task
Minds are full, our bellies replete,
To read again your tortured ravings,
Your road to Hell with words for pavings.
Written by Dale E. Malone, Am
I just a curmudgeon?
The Great & Wonderful Kahuna wants to know!
Last modified: April 26, 2009