My empty boasts

My empty boasts only served to show the bloat that had entered my speech and bluster,
An arrogance totally without pleasance that infected my body and made me fester.
A rock unto my block was required to relieve me this sense of importance,
A jolt from a bolt alternatively to rewire this backward form of acceptance.

And so squeezed between a rock and a hard place,
With pride dented and short, quick fall from grace,
I started anew after a look in the mirror,
And carried on with me now the sirrah.

Tweet Repeat 51

Marching under oriflamme, the invaders bashed and bammed through every city and town from Ock to Mother's Down.

Pants on Fire

A mere taradiddle that got out of hand,
A mere taradiddle that lost me my band.

A loyal bunch of allies they had been,
Ne'er a more loyal bunch has been seen.

But it's only after that you see you're the fool,
When you have bathed within the Fibliar Pool.

Speechless

Diction beyond my own juris'
After pride resembling hubris,

Collapsible confidence
Folds to New Nervousnence,

Stutter like a faulty machine,
Nothing coming out nice and clean.

Changes that castrate,
Pierce, gouge and deflate.

The old self that dwelt within,
To new self, traitorous twin:

My familiar that resides pore deep,
Who all too often outward seeps,

And makes me a gibbering wreck,
A goddamned powerless feck.

Ishihara

My finger lost its way
My dreams in ruins lay
Crushed at five years old

Never then to drive a train
To control steam filled reins
By mother I was told

First remembered disappointment
Carried with me as an ailment
I wish I were more bold

Tweet Repeat 50

A benison for venison - the holiest of meats fall warmly at the feet - nevermind Rihanna, let us all follow Diana! - and say cheers with beers as we tuck in to deer's rears!

Tweet Repeat 49

Dundrearies, or Piccadilly weepers - those side-facial hairy creepers, my hatred for them still now grows deeper.

They never made me swoon and never made me faint – only gave me feeling akin to sniffing lead paint.

Never did they throw me into fits of passion - my, how pleased was I when they finally fell from fashion.

Now naught but dread memory that makes one weary: thank you, Lord, for ridding us o’the Dundreary.