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At Your Own Risk

Conjunction junction,
What’s your function?
My major malfunction lies in compunction.
Shun the junk son,
Shun the junk.
Ah hell, you’re full of bunk.
I shun your test,
Does that mean I flunk?
Tell me . . .
Do you feel lucky punk?
Ha, Clint Eastwood,
Would he, could he,
Tell me, should he?
Should he, would he, could he what?
I do not know, I’m all screwed up.
My motivation lies in hidden skies,
Locked in a wine cellar of childish cries.
Oh those cries I do despise,
And if you’re wise, you’ll do the same.
Insane, mundane, not so tame.
Indescribably describable,
Close to certifiable,
Sputtered, muttered, uttered words,
Are signs of the perturbed.
Trying times, they are disturbed.
Like me? Like you?
Do I speak true?
Of course I do, I thought you knew.
I thought I caught you with the glue,
Trying to bond me to the flue,
With match in hand, saying “adieu.”
Nice try, good going, but no cigar,
I’ll never drift away that far.
How silly you are,
Still sticky with tar,
Picked up from the bar.
Raise the bar, jump higher now,
Now’s not the time to tip that cow.
Just ring his bell and walk away,
See me as I lead you away . . . .
‘Twas quite sneaky of me yes?
And you believed me, bless.
You know what comes next? Guess.
Yes, indeed this is a test.
Shall you flunk like I did prior?
Or shall you score just slightly higher?
‘Tis not for me to say.
No, I really mean it.
Just because I write it,
Doesn’t mean you have to read it.
Reading’s not a requirement,
Merely an impediment.
For once you get stuck in the mud,
You’re apt to drown in the flood,
Just be thankful it isn’t blood,
For that would be messy and frightful.
As for me, I’m not that spiteful.
Except on Thursdays, those are bad,
I’ll tell you about the days I’ve had,
Someday, somewhere, at some juncture,
See me limp with a spinal puncture.
Now that, no, it wasn’t friendly.
Here’s a final gasping end plea:
I’m tumbling into darkness,
While sleeping in the hay.
I have myself a broken bat,
And a nightmare called “today.”
So if this plea you’re reading,
Then please get far away,
For this nonsense is exhausting,
Yet I fear it’s here to stay.
So pack your bags, I pray you,
As I am prey this day,
And you needn’t be a witness
As the ruin comes my way.

dirty harry.jpg

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