Screw you, lover boy!
What you think I am?
I don’t need your
Or your sexy
I can do bad on my own
So you just leave
This girl alone!
You done met your match with me
Cuz I been all you’ll ever be
I got this thing!
Young man? Ya hear?
So buy yourself another beer.
What’s that you say?
I sure look good?
To a tool like you-
I’d think I would!
Yep, I’m a bitch
Just like you say-
I’m the bad ass bitch
that got away!
This little ode goes out to all the Tools out there that will be celebrating today’s Hallmark Holiday by scouring the local venues looking for lonely women.
My contribution to Dylan’s
First Line Friday on MLMM wherein the first line, “Screw you, lover boy” was supplied.
Little Evie Sorensen
Was born of drunken stock
To a man who drove a push-broom
And a woman with one frock.
She grew up cold and hungry
But she never shed a tear
When she went without her supper
So her parents could have beer.
She had no friends to speak of
‘Cause they moved from room to room
So she’d while away the hours
Playing horsey with dad’s push-broom.
And a gallant steed he was
That push-broom horse with her astride
As they left behind the squalid walls
Of this week’s cramped bedside.
Nights she waited at the window
Not for her dad, but for her roan
Till one night she saw her drunken dad
Stumbling up the street alone.
“They grabbed me in the park there
Near Lord Nelson’s monument
And before I knew what happened
I was eating the cement!”
“One grabbed and swung my push-broom
But, thank god, it hit the garden wall
Or he’d a split my head clean open
Whew! Was that ever, a close call!”
As daddy raved and mommy wept
Cause he’d come home with no beer-
Little Evie Sorensen
Shed her first real tear.
This is my response to the photo prompt provided by Crispina Kemp on this weeks
Crimson’s Creative Challenge.
Local lore claimed evil lurked
behind the sewer grate
So when the kiddies come up missing,
it was sure they’d met their fate
At the hands of some dark demon-
Sure the devil’s advocate.
No one would have ever guessed
The kiddies left of their own accord
Some tired of rules and discipline
Others because they felt ignored
But most of them just flew the coop
‘Cause they was over being bored.
They’d gone off with Pliney Shrimpton
To roust dragons from their lairs
Swim in pools of chocolate mousse
And dance with grizzly bears
To sup on sweets and soda pop
And never wash behind their ears.
Life with Pliney was a party
The fun just never stopped
They played well past exhaustion
Until finally, they dropped
Into the sweetest sated slumber-
And that’s when Pliney popped-
The bubble of enchantment
In which he’d kept his evil hidden
And the world behind the sewer grate
Reverted back to Ol’ Ye Midden
A land where mirth and child’s play
were explicitly forbidden.
Sketch by Fernando Cortez
This is my response to the photo provided by Crispina Kemp on this week’s
Crimson’s Creative Challenge #60.
T’was a simple block of text, nothing more and nothing less
Yet the upheaval it has caused, is causing quite a mess. How could a girl of so few years, have known such particulars And what, pray tell could’ve driven her, to include them in her memoirs? She’d kept the diary ‘neath her pillow, since she was just a lass But since the text went public, her little lasses ass was grass! Had they read way too much into it, that simple block of text? And by unintended innuendo, allowed themselves to be perplexed? But how else could one interpret, “He rode me mother piggyback” And did the Chancellor really whisper “Care to share a tic tac paddywack?” So many questions left unanswered, meanwhile the Chancellors up a crick As he can’t account for his whereabouts that day he called in sick. And what of the little lassie’s mother? She’s gone into complete seclusion. Leaving those of us with inquiring minds, to draw our own conclusion.
This little exercise in absurdity includes
Misky’s Twiglet #151 ‘block of text’ and the three phrasal prompts provided by the OLWG #119. The phrases were:
call in sick the diary beneath her pillow we can share a tic tac
Photo courtesy of CCC #52
At the bottom of the garden
Where fairies used to nest The magistrates of Mockingham Are holding an inquest. Seems some contractors from Capezium Were digging a new loo When they hit a main of candy-cane And havoc did ensue. “Could have been there since the Faerie days Could be an ancient artifact Halt all further excavation Leave the sacred vein intact!” “But our children,” cried the peasants, “Have nowhere else to go Our pots are full to overflowing Dig the privy before the snow!” “Order” cried the magistrates “We’ll need a brief recess Before we can pass judgement In this whole stinking mess.” Meanwhile back in Blinkcanshire Little Sally’s still distraught Over what became of the candy-cane She had, but now has naught.
This little ditty was inspired by the photo prompt provided by
Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge #52. Also included in the piece are Michael’s Taleweaver prompt on MLMM, ‘At the bottom of the garden’ and the prompt word, nest as provided by Denise at Six Sentence Stories.