A little story

There once was a little boy
Who was quite the spoilt brat
Never had any manners
And every word he spat

Now everyone was sick of him
They’d never known a boy so rude
He really was a naughty thing
And always in a mood

The towns people plotted and planned
“How do we get rid of this child?” They said
So they sat and scammed
Then an idea came to mind

Later that week
As the little brat appeared
Mrs tolly took command
Setting up a little trap to catch him as he neared

As that little boy touched the rope
He went flying into the air
All the people watched and laughed
As a branch caught his underwear

Like a human catapult
He was thrown into the night
Those Calvin Kleins threw him far away
That town sure put him right

Another challenge from disjointed rhyme

Haven’t done a challenge for awhile but as I am bedridden at the moment due to an operation the lovely disjointed rhymings set me another challenge.
The challenge was to write a poem where every other word was a word I’d picked out from the dictionary. My choice of words were ones I didn’t use or rarely used. The poem started out well but I do think it lost its poetic sound part way through. (I will put the words I choose in bold)
Please enjoy and tell me what you thought in the comments.

There was a place called bedlam
Where everyone was confused
Everything here’s a fuddle
Even the potatoes are bemused

Here lives a little bumpkin
A clumsy, awkward man
He may be little but he’s very rotund
Food for comfort was his plan

A small house in a hamlet
Where our little but large man lives
His door propped open with a scythe
Keeping the widened frame from falling

I really must clarify
Our little man is getting bigger and bigger
Now his tummy is of prodigious size
A ticking time bomb inside

One day awoke with a loud cacophony
His neighbours run outside
The mans corpus exploding
Months worth of haggis blown out the door

(Do not try this at home. Propping up door frames with scythes is not a wise thing to do. It is very dangerous. Also I advice you not to eat haggis till you explode it could and will be a very painful death. Having your insides explode was never fun and also is a horrible mess that someone would have to clean up. Think about the poor person who has to come along behind you and clean up all that half digested haggis. You have been warned)

The unfinished poems #1

this is a poem I wrote last week for a friend. Hope you enjoy it 🙂

As she dries her eyes,
Those tears filled with hate,
Bitterness and anger,
Towards everything.

That girl that stands by the mirror,
Hangs her head in shame,
While she looks at the scales,
And the number displayed.

We live in a world,
That corrupts our brains,
Telling us to be something,
We don’t need to be.

Size is just a number,
And beauty is inside,
But we’re forced to think,
It’s what is before our eyes.

Societies a mess,
And are minds,
Are all a muck up,
Caused by broken times.