Nostalgia For Days Less Wordy

I am a man who’s mostly fluent

In most things some call “incongruent.”

If you don’t swallow, you shall spewn’t.

Also, I’m not Clyde.

I hope the intro set the scene

For me to tell you what has been;

This time’s the time I met my queen,

My once and future bride.

My eyes fell softly on the wench

Who sat backwards upon a bench,

Talking to a crescent wrench

About which bands were good.

I asked the lady, “How be it

“That you who speak to hardware sit

“With legs ensconced, I do admit,

“Within that bench of wood?”

She did not reply at first,

For my manners were near the worst,

And I, my oversight, then cursed

And then addressed the tool.

Now seeing that I understood,

She said “I’m trapped within the wood

“Because I wondered if I could.”

Now I felt like a fool

And so I left her trapped within

The bench where didst our tale begin,

For sitting backwards is no sin

But merely hard to grasp.

She’s still my queen and future bride,

For I speak truth and have not lied.

When she is free, and bathed beside,

Her body I will clasp.

For who better to share a life,

Who better to be made a wife,

Than one, though trapped, can feel no strife

Though physics she has broken?

And who, from her odd point of view

Can feel a love so strong and true

Than not Clyde, whose hair isn’t blue,

Who made her heart awoken?

This tale has a moral, yes,

So close your eyes and take a guess.

Your eyes are closed… how read you this?

Anyway, I boast

That this here incongruent verse

Tells you, dear reader, of my curse

And that there are things so much worse

Than a lazy, four-line post.

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Filed under Poems

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