“I like what you guys are usually up too.”
Um, there’s only me here.
“This type of clever work and reporting!”
Reporting? I’m not a reporter.
“Keep up the good works guys, I’ve added you guys to my blogroll.”
A threat then? Well, two can play at that game. You’re added to my spamroll.
• Flash Fiction Fifty-Five: the whole story, including heading, is told in 55 words.
Come read me my riddle
Sing hickory dickory dock
For down came a spider
A gossamer glider
And landed on Bo Peep’s blue frock
This creature so lowly
She brushed off real slowly
Then played on her didgeridoo
She charmed not just creatures
But parsons and preachers
Who featured in France’s Who’s Who
Her sheep were not fazed
For they grew fat and grazed
Till a wolf with a weasely grin
Slipped the sheep, plus a goat,
Past his jaws down his throat,
By the hairs on his chinny chin chin
The spider then teased
The old wolf till he sneezed
Who then coughed up sheep, plus the goat,
And a cat with a fiddle, a rope round its middle,
Attached to a lifebelt and boat
So now ends my riddle
Puss played on its fiddle
And Bo Peep her didgeridoo
I hope you find pleasing
My rhyme without reason
Au revoir, tally ho, toodle-oo!
Summer’s course is nearly run
Garden furniture guilt-trips
Rasp goes the sandpaper
Boing goes the tin lid
Slosh goes the paint
The paint is wet
And now it’s tacky
Drips smoothed out
And now it’s dry
Outside jobs are almost done
It just remains to gild the lily
“I’m the winner!” shouted Romulus (or was it Remus?) as he teasingly leapt over the stone wall that Remus (or was it Romulus?) had made round his new city.
“No, you’re not,” said the other crossly and knocked him down dead. “The first shall be last,” he said, and laughed. “Or should I say … late?”
My first — and hopefully not my last — attempt at Flash Fiction Fifty-Five, where the whole story, including heading, is told in fifty-five words on a given theme, here provided by Leslie of Colonialist’s Blog. Rome’s founder is, of course, Romulus who according to one account by Livy killed Remus because his brother belittled his new city wall by leaping over it.
Close-up of grotesque in Thwaite church, Suffolk
Yah boo! said the yahoo,
the boho yobbo hobo,
whose hobby is playing on the oboe
(though he can’t tell his arse from his elbow)
which he plays all day in Soho
while they film it all in slo-mo
Is there still an Olympic ideal? For if not there should be we feel.
It’d be such a treat if all teams didn’t cheat, thinking each shiny medal’s a steal.
Rogue countries just seem on the make because status is always at stake.
So where some have hope there are others who dope as though it’s oh so clever to fake.
Let’s pray no banned drugs are internal so that Rio is rendered infernal.
Then events will all seem above board — squeaky clean — and thus will the flame burn eternal.
Monday was Hug-an-Atheist Day
but I found that my arms
couldn’t reach all the way
round my body
Tuesday was National Book Lovers Day
but I missed it
I was too busy
reading in bed
Next came International Xenophobia Day
and I spent all Wednesday
Thursday was National Paradox Day
but it took me till nighttime
staying in bed
to puzzle it out
Friday was Who Gives A Damn Day
and I decided to do
just that and go
back to bed
Saturday was the thirteenth
day of the month
and my luck
Sunday was the seventh day
when God rested
Who can argue with that?
No matter if some one searches
for his essential thing,
so he/she needs to be available
that in detail, therefore
that thing is maintained over here.
More spam poetry – keep it coming, spammers!