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Poems Part II

Ladies and gentlemen... POEMS PART II, by Schiltzberg. This is the extension of my original factbook Poems, which can be found here. As a reminder, these are just a few poems I came up with in my free time, and I'm not a professional, so please do not make fun of me :). Please do not take them too seriously (they are meant to be fun), and if you like them, please give me an up-arrow. Most importantly, enjoy! :)

All poems written by Luke Schiltz, unless otherwise noted. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.

Want more poems? Check out my good friend Anollasia's poetry here!


The Old Man

The old man sits in the basement in the cold and the dark.
He pokes at the fireplace and blows on the spark.
He sits on his chair with that look in his eye.
He plays the banjo all day and no one knows why;
He repeats with a smile that same happy tune
That he's been playing all morning, day, and afternoon.
He loves to tell stories, but he never does lie.
He's gruff, but deep down, he's a really nice guy.

For future benefit, he backs into every parking space.
He wears pajamas all the time, even in a public place;
He matches plaid with checked stripes, but he doesn't even care,
Even when all the other people stop and they stare.
From his house, he flies a dozen flags; it looks like the UN.
He claims to have descended from superior men.
He'll vote for the Republican no matter what he believes.
When they mark up the prices, he calls the store owners thieves.

He doesn't like to cut the grass, but he's not a lazy guy;
He thinks that if you cut it, it will turn yellow and die.
He occasionally wears shorts that were jeans; now they're all cut and frayed,
And he cut them uneven and too short anyway.
He shifts his car to neutral when he rides down a hill,
And he doesn't even realize how much transmission that kills.
He's got a turn signal, but he refuses to use it,
Because he thinks, if he does, it will burn out and he'll lose it.

He'll turn on the television, and sometimes he'll see
Some folks like Chuck Norris, John Wayne, or Bruce Lee,
And he discovers he would like to make it into a DVD,
So he gets his camcorder and points it at the TV.
Sometimes he'll lend us a movie or one of those baseball shows
That was made in the 50s or 40s; who knows?
We'll watch the grainy film of his TV, trying to make sense
Of the movie, but his banjo playing in the background is simply too dense.

He goes to church every day, and he does like to tell
That if you don't show up there, well, you'll soon be in hell.
He works out every day and he tears off the sleeves
Of his shirt and goes on to pretend he's Steve Reeves.
He unscrews the light bulbs to save the electric bill.
He shoots the neighbor's dog (just for fun, not to kill).
He hoped he would die at 70; that was nine years ago.
One foot in the grave, one foot left to go.

When he gets a new shirt, he never does wear it,
Out of fear that, if he does, he will stain or he'll tear it.
He does the laundry by hand and he swears it's great fun,
And he hangs his underpants on a hanger to dry in the sun.
He leaves them drying by the front door for the entire day long,
Even when visitors come, and he finds nothing wrong.
He is obsessed with Colorado, which he openly fears
He will never live in for the rest of his years.

He sleeps in the camper in the garage for no apparent reason;
He says camping is luxury, no matter the season.
He retired at fifty-eight, because he saved every dime;
Now, when he's not playing the banjo, he's sleeping all the time.
He's got fake antlers hanging down from the ceiling.
He takes 20 pills a day, which he claims keeps him healing.
He's down there all day in that cold basement cell;
For anyone else, it would be a living hell.


Dancing Ghost/Caged Bird/Roaming Mouse

Let me out! You know I'm here.
Come get me now; I can hear you!

The wind and the fluttering soul
Chases the melancholy from the hole.
The dancing, prancing of the light
Goes back and forth into the night.

As the running comes to a stop,
I feel you; come and get me!

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tiptoe-tiptoe
Not to be disturbed.
Don't you stagger, don't you stumble.
Not to be procured.

Chew the curtains; chew the floor,
Sliding down a velvet dress;
Eating, chewing a great mess.

Mouse in a tower on the ledge,
Looking over to the edge.
All that lies in the distance
Has no cover or bold resistance.

Back and forth the lady swings;
With nimble shrieks the lady sings.
Between the trees, the phantom glides.
Under the dark, the phantom hides.

"Let me out," cries the bird.


Nothing

Get behind me, it's not Satan's fault.
Look behind me, Lot's wife won't turn to salt.
I just wish I could feel something.
I feel nothing.

You know what they say?
That the first goes away, and the last is the first.
Well, us in the middle, we're the worst.
I feel nothing.

I beg and I fast and I pray,
But this mediocrity never does go away.
I pray and I cry and I do all this stuff.
I do what I can, but it's never enough.
I just wish I could feel something.
I feel nothing.

I wish something would blind me or allow me to see.
I wish someone would enslave me or set me free.
I wish I could do something in the wrong or the right.
I wish I could do something to keep me up in the night.
I just wish I could feel something.
Nothing.


A Story For Boys

Broken glasses and bare feet
Should never mix in summer's heat.
A spiral of smoke from tired boys,
A burning forest the surrounding noise.

In the shadow, the sun fades,
And golden twilight ever shades.
In the shadows and tall trees, the boys play on the plain.
From the mountain, Piggy's ghost is crying in vain.

A pig's head speaks by the buzzing of flies,
Which engulf and surround everything that dies.
To the boys, the fire tends,
And to the flies and the stick pointed at both ends.

Running through the forest, I was out of control,
Hunted by the spears and the fearful patrol.
The fire, the smoke, the Lord of the Flies.
I was rescued by a soldier from a world of lies.


A Strange Man's Serenade

I woke up last night naked with your picture by my eye,
And my heart stopped beating, like I was about to die.
I saw your sweet face sighing, and I did begin to cry.
I've done 100,000 things, but I've never told a lie.

I woke up with your picture tattooed right across my chest.
I was exactly sure who did it, but I didn't know the rest.
I looked to the side and smiled, realizing I was undressed,
And lounged around buck naked, while I thought about your breast.

I checked the clock and realized it was sixty-three past noon;
My heart, it skipped, and so I zipped up crazy as a loon.
I waved to my reflection, as if to say, "I'll see you soon,"
And grabbed the remote to the television and shut off the cartoons.

I hustled to my car with frozen cheeks against the wind.
I found the car's instruction manual, which I very briefly skimmed.
When I found the gas, I floored it, but I couldn't find the brake,
So from the window I did jump. I got road burn for Pete's sake!

It was then I found the office at the place in which I work,
When suddenly I remembered that my boss, he is a jerk.
The man stormed in and asked why I was twenty-three hours behind,
And I said I was an hour early and that just about blew his mind.

Last night, I fell asleep with your nude picture on display.
I tried to forget your feeling, but it wouldn't go away.
When I woke, I was surprised to find myself without my pants,
But I quickly remembered when I saw your filthy ants.


Jesse White

Hey there Mr. Jesse White,
Won't you treat me well? Won't you treat me right?
Won't you right my wrongs and defend my rights?
Won't you treat me well, Mr. Jesse White?

Hey Mr. Sports Guy, hey Mr. Star,
Won't you help me license up my car?
Hey, Mr. State with your veteran strap,
Won't you do my social security and all that crap?

Hey Mr. Secretary with your name misspelt,
Won't you fasten the latch of my seatbelt?
Won't you bring me closer? Won't you bring me over?
Won't you keep me sane? Won't you keep me sober?

Can I have your nerve? Can I have your ambition?
Can I have your job? Can I have your position?
Can I have your daughters? Can I have your wife?
Can I have the rest of your whole damned life?

Hey there Mr. Jesse White,
Won't you hold me now? Won't you hug me tight?
Won't you tuck me and turn out the light?
Won't you be there for me, Jesse White?


Fat Man's Blues

Come to me Chris Christy. Come to me John Candy.
Come to me Ralph Cramdon, or Jackie Gleason if more handy.
Come to me King Henry VIII. Come to me Winston Churchill.
Come to me you fat people and all who get their fill.

Ever since I ate the butter, I began to feel a flutter
In my heart, and I grew an utter
That impairs my speech; it makes me stutter,
And my body no longer fits its cookie cutter man-sized shape.
You don't have to eat a grape, and you don't have to gawk or gape.
No, you don't need to gawk or gape, and there's no need to smile or stare,
But I just thought I'd make you aware that I have just received the news
That I'll be huffering and I'll be suffering from the Fat Man's Blues.

Come to me old Elvis; you're not as hot as you used to be;
You got living it up and eating it up and growing your waistline like IZ.
Come to me Dr. Phil, and bring your special guest host, Oprah.
Come on Alec Baldwin, I didn't even recognize ya.

I went down to the doctor to see what he had to say;
He said he found it strange to see me growing not just up, up, but also away.
He said the word "obese" and I turned away distracted indifferently,
Then I did a double take when I realized that it was me.
I looked around the room, but I found no one else, to my surprise,
And I was embarrassed by my fatness and suddenly saw my demise.
That doctor diagnosed me and I can't believe the news.
Yes, he says I'm huffering and I'm suffering from the Fat Man's Blues.

It makes me get embarrassed when I see myself undressed,
Because I'm not sure if I'm human and it makes me get obsessed
With losing weight and getting fit, but I never pass the test,
Because getting hungry makes me sad, and I eat when I'm depressed.

I've been honkering down on steak and I thought that maybe I should stop,
So I cried out, "Save the cows," and protested, dressed up like a cop,
Which reminded me of Dunkin' Donuts, and I had a loop or ten,
And then, right before you know it, I'd gained back all my weight again.
My body builds up gradually at about a pound a day,
And by now I've just accepted that I'll waste my life away.
I lay in bed too tired to reach over and hit the snooze,
But I'm too fat to get out of bed, because of these Fat Man's Blues.


Slavery

When I'm done with you, I throw you to my feet,
But repent just hours later and for you I must repeat
My vows that say I mustn't run away,
Because you're jealous and you won't let me have it any other way.

When I try to escape, you torture me;
When I return to you, and I'm begging on my knees.
You tighten the stiff shackles that hold me down
And make my body die and bury underground.

I can't survive without you, not a day,
So any price to keep you I will pay.
You torture me, then take away my pain;
You stop my heart, then do stuff with my brain.

You make me think about you all the time.
You make me give my body and bottom dime.
But when I need you, you rescue me and save,
My sanity, then send me to my grave.


Morning Dreams

And the lights flash white and the bells are ringing,
And the boys still dance and the girls are singing,
And the temperature's cool with a chance of rain,
As the girl's voice wakes me back up again.

And I fall back to sleep in a mystical cloud,
As the princess wraps me in a magical shroud.
And the girls hug tight around their men,
Until the noise wakes me back up again.

In a magical cloud of unbroken sleep,
As the boy sleeps quiet in a broken heap,
As the sun comes up and the colors mix,
The moon goes down and the clock strikes six.

The voices come like a clouded dream,
And things flutter round not what they seem.
Things roll around and act confused,
As I reach an arm over and hit the snooze.


The Sound of the Shotgun

When a train is barreling down the tracks, it's hard to stop the force.
When you're traveling down the wrong path, it's hard to change your course.
It's hard to be a genius when your whole life you have been a fool.
It's hard to be a hero in a world so cruel.
It's hard to be a father when they take away your son.
It's hard to be a victim when you hold the smoking gun.
It's hard to keep a secret when everybody knows.
It's hard to hide from God when you're the one that he hand chose.

But the sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun through my brain.

The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound that helps me stop the pain.

I feel a feeling I've never felt before.
I feel a feeling I'm not sure I want to feel no more.
The bad man gets dressed and ties up his shoes.
The bad man knows that he has to lose,
But what he doesn't know is goodness won't go;
It doesn't always win, in fact, evil's already won,
Because the sound of the shotgun.

The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound that pulsates through my brain.

The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound of the shotgun.
The sound that helps me stop the pain.

I feel my heart and it beats so fast.
I feel my pain has stopped at last.
As I move my hand, I block the sun,
And I reach over to grab my gun.
I locked on my target far in the distance,
And I asked God for his assistance.
I calmed myself and felt such vigor.
I cleared my mind and pulled the trigger.

The sound of the shotgun
Intoxicates me like a drug.
The sound of the shotgun
Energized me like a plug.

The sound of the shotgun,
And the blood baked in the sun.
The sound of the shotgun
At the moment I had won.

The sound of the shotgun,
And I knew what I had done.
The sound of the shotgun,
And I dropped them one by one.


Malice Aforethought

When the police brought me down, father didn't shed a tear.
The police took me down and laid me flat on the ground;
My mother came near, and I know she could hear
The sound all around, and I saw that she frowned.
It was at that moment my mother had known
For the first time that her boy had yet grown.

The men brought me down in the car to the station.
I told them they had the wrong men. I told them what I hadn't done,
But all was stupidity of the situation,
Because I was guilty and I was wearing a gun.
They took me into the room and fastened my wrists.
Their glares and dirty looks hurt me more than their fists.

Now I'm here in cell pod 4-D,
A guilty verdict written on my back.
Condemned by a unanimous jury
With 14 years in the sack.
I'm not sure who to talk to or what to do or say,
But I've got 5,000 days to make up my mind anyway.


Everybody Loses

Jesus died to take away our pain, but we all still suffer.
He took away our sin, but we vice to all of our ability.
He came to make life easier, but it all got tougher.
The whole world teeters on its own fragility.

Three people saw you on the mountain in a robe transformed.
Thomas said seeing is believing, I say blindness is disbelief.
Laziness is robbery, but you won't calm my storm,
And poverty strikes me like the club of a thief.

The nonbelievers get punished for their disbelief.
The doubters receive pain for their incredulity.
The regretful are persecuted for their grief.
The believers are condemned for their infidelity.

Today we live in a cruel, cruel world,
Where everyone's beaten and everybody bruises,
Where all are condemned to the underworld,
Where nobody wins and everyone loses.

I fast and I pray, but I find no salvation.
I go the wrong way, but I see no hallucination.
I do the wrong thing, and I meet no aggravation.
I make the wrong choice, but I find no dissuasion.

Jesus came to give us a book.
Jesus came to site his word,
But everything has been mistook;
Everything has been misheard.

The nonbelievers get punished for their disbelief.
The doubters receive pain for their incredulity.
The regretful are persecuted for their grief.
The believers are condemned for their infidelity.

Today we live in a cruel, cruel world,
Where everyone's beaten and everybody bruises,
Where all are condemned to the underworld,
Where nobody wins and everyone loses.


Everything

I will give you everything; nothing will be forgotten.
I will give you every food and nothing shall go rotten.
I will give you all the lambs, which shall not have a blemish.
I will give you everything so that you won't be jealous.

The flowers in the field grow
In reds and whites, but do they know
How beautiful their colors fair
That Solomon could not compare?

And I will give you everything: a purple cloak and stalky reed,
And I will give you all the power and strength that you will need.
An armory and battle axe, a suit of armor and iron slacks,
A fruitful name and massive land against which I won't strike my hand.

Olive blossom from the mouth
Of the dove brought from the south.
The colors bring upon us peace,
After which our problems cease.

I will heal you all your pains and relieve you of your aches,
And I will seal you all your gains and receive all your mistakes.
I will give you everything: the joyful pains and child's cry,
And I have won you every son per every light in the night sky.


My Two Cents

Fifty-one hours for my two cents.
Six days a week in my defense.
Six long months of my pretense
For one-hundred-two dollars and nineteen cents

When I do dare to show my face,
I receive no welcome or warm embrace.
I take a step back and so erase
My feelings and I walk in place.

I make no mistake, I make no blunder;
I turn in my card and punch in my number.
I see the woman at the checkout and count to ten,
Because I cant stand seeing her face again.

She gets angry for no good reason,
Like Ive lit a fire in the dry season.
She makes decisions at my own expense;
She makes me work for my two cents.

And the greatest of the irony
Is she is lazy in her tyranny;
She tells us to work, while she sits and talks;
She tells us to hurry, while she casually walks.

You can sit all day with your petty rhyme;
You can waste all of your precious time;
Some folks are just assholes who want to give you sh*t.
Its not your fault youve got to deal with it.

Some people make you angry and you dont know why;
Some people beat you down and you want to cry;
Some people are always trying to pick a fight,
But if you put that behind you, youll be alright.

I gave you my thoughts and my two cents,
And now Ill tell you what it represents:
You try to pick my brain, but I dont mind;
When youre struggling with a problem, just leave it behind.


Autobiography

Im not John Paul, George, or Ringo,
And it wont matter how much I go
To Abbey Road or the Vatican;
I cant replicate success again.

I wont ever write the Torah
Or burn Sodom and Gomorrah,
Or see the bush that burns so bright,
Or hold the Sun and stop the night.

I dont claim to be a poet,
And when I write, I think you know it.
But when I write down rhyming words
I dont just write them for the birds,
And though some things are rarely caught,
They show a message or share a thought.

I dont try to be Bob Dylan,
And if I did, Id be a villain.
And if you think Im Eddie Poe,
Nevermore shall this be so.

It may be true what others say;
Im just myself, and thats okay.
Im not trying to be someone or something Ill never be,
And theres no need to; take it from me.


I Wish I Was a Fisherman

Sometimes I meet people that never have time.
They run around in circles and never make a dime.
They check all their watches and never get slow.
They're running all around with nowhere to go.

All these busy people with all of their strife
Think about their money and not about life;
They think about elegance and all of that bling.
They never, ever talk about the simple things.

I wish I was a fisherman,
Eating lunch from a tin can,
Just sitting on a boat.
On the ocean I'd float.
I wish I was a fisherman.

For half a billion people, everything's just hard.
Happiness is in the middle, but they discard
The feeling for something in a distant courtyard,
When they skip the signs of longing in their own backyard.

There's a type of person that can never be pleased.
They waste seconds of their life until their lives get seized.
You can talk about your things with all your chitter chatter,
But faith and hope and love are all that really matter.

I wish I was a fisherman,
Cooking tuna in a frying pan,
When the seagulls just fly
Over the bright blue sky.
I wish I was a fisherman.

When I see the world, it's so fast and busy;
It gets me feeling anxious, all hot and dizzy.
Everything's a little fast and too snappy.
Nobody really knows what it means to be happy.

You don't have to be all sick and feeling distressed
To live a happy life to its very fullest.
You shouldn't be angry and you shouldn't be depressed.
The world's too simple to be overtly obsessed.

I wish I was a fisherman,
A little sunburn and a burning tan,
Just casting out the line;
Doing just fine.
I wish I was a fisherman.


August '99

I was born the summer of '99
Early in the morning, rise and shine.
I was born before the world was mine.
I was born in August '99.

I was born without a dollar to my name.
I came in dumb, illiterate, mute, crippled, lame,
Smelly, homeless, without a job, lacking fame.
I was born without a dollar to my name.

I was born without a friend in sight,
Without a fright or fear or foe to fight,
All cold and slimy under the sun light.
I was born without a friend in sight.

I was born the summer of '99
On a stormy Sunday morning feeling fine.
I must have messed up somewhere along the line.
I was born in August '99.

I was born helpless in the nude,
Short of breath, thirsty, in need of food,
Wailing like a demon, loud and rude.
I was born helpless in the nude.

I was born without a hand to hold
On a dreary summer day, and it was cold,
With a frozen heart surrounded by fool's gold.
I was born without a hand to hold.

I was born the summer of '99,
Treated like a prisoner on the line,
Just a simple silence treated like a swine.
I was born in August '99.

I was born and I was on my own
With nothing with me but my skin and bone.
No marble throne and I was all alone.
I was born and I was on my own.

I was born and no one was aware.
I was gone, then suddenly was there.
I was born and no one seemed to care.
I was born and no one was aware.

I was born the summer of '99.
No angels crying out the name divine.
No wise men searching the skies for a sign.
I was born in August '99.


The Widow

A little woman lives alone,
As old and wrinkled as a stone.
So long ago her date of birth.
Her modest height and feeble girth.
Her humble life and simple styles.
She sits and knits and gently smiles.

Her curvy lips and weary eyes.
A mouth that never knew of lies.
She's wrinkled up with gentle lines
That show themselves when the sun shines.
These hands of love that shake with age;
So tender, never knowing rage.

She sits and knits, a gentle fate,
And patiently she seems to wait.
With confidence, her fingers travel
To make a knot that won't unravel.
She's never sinned or been in naught,
And peacefully she sits in thought.

The widow, she does know her time
Is at her back and past her prime,
But she just smiles and dreams at last
Of meeting with her man who passed
And left from this world years ago
Into the place we've yet to go.

And so in peace she simply sits,
And, with a smile, she gently knits
Out on the porch until the night;
She goes inside, turns out the light,
And goes to bed; she falls asleep.
Her body still, her soul to keep.


I Shall Be Free

People are garbage; people are trash.
They walk on their knees with their heads black with ash;
They wear their black robes and their pretty white sash,
When they take away my money, and they steal all my cash.
Call Geico.

If I was a hobo, Id live on the streets,
Id shave in a box and sleep without sheets,
Id beg for a dollar and get dimes at my feet,
Id scramble all around with nothing to eat;
Thank God that Im not a hobo.

White robed ladies say the worst kind of prayer;
They say their Hail Marys and devoutly stare.
Theyre seven-hundred pounds and theyre eating sloppy joes.
A beggars dying in the alleyway and no one even knows.
Blame Gandhi.
Hes burning the Union Jack.

Im gonna throw Bill Gates a loop thats gonna throw him in debt.
Im gonna go find Bono; were gonna sing a duet.
Its a very merry Christmas, and I tried to deck the halls,
But Mr. Gorbachev tore down all the walls.
Doggone it.
Im getting rained on.

Six, five, four, three;
Im telling you, I shall be free.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five;
Indeed, Im the happiest man alive.
Dont kill me.
Just thrill me.
God Bless Bob Zimmerman.


Simplicity

Sticks and stones can break my bones
And rob my life if they are thrown;
The difference between day and night
Is nothing more than dark and light;
The struggle between wrong and right
Is nothing more than black and white.

Silence is stronger than any word
That anyone has ever heard,
Or any poet has since incurred,
Or any thought thats ever stirred,
Or any feeling ever felt,
Or any word thats ever spelt.

So awfully loud is this quietness,
And yet so great this emptiness,
And through the void, were so annoyed
By the sound thats all around,
But when it leaves, the sound receives
A quality we cannot hear that never ever reached our ear.

Imagine a world that had no things
To do the works that evil brings;
Imagine a world that was so great
It lacked the meanings of loathe and hate;
Imagine a world that, like a dove,
Was peaceful and so full of love.

Simplicity, it is a word
That cant be seen, but can be heard,
And many know it, but they dont know
The meaning that it means to show;
That something more can be so bland,
And something less can be so grand.

Against all this complexity,
The answer is simplicity;
And yet so great this lunacy,
The answer is simplicity;
And so with authenticity,
The answer is simplicity.


Words

You're an animal, wild and rough,
With a snarl of a jaguar.
You're quick; you're grim and gruff
With a smell like a cigar.
There's not skin that's thick or tough
Enough to recover from these red scars.
There aren't swear words bad enough
To describe the person that you are.

You think you know; you think you show;
You think you go, and you bestow
Your love, your love, but your love is slow;
I think you hear, and I think you know,
But you hold your ear and just say, "No,"
As your rotten body smells, although
It's living, "living," and the cuts you sew
In your broken heart; in your heart of snow.

And I hear you now, and you know you say
A dreadful thing that won't go away,
That stings my mind the rest of the day
And makes the clouds all brown and gray,
And you know; you know it's what you said,
And you hear the words when you're in your bed,
And you hear them flying through your head;
You're a broken thread, a heart of lead, a shade of red; you wish you're dead.

You're mean; you're clean; you're preen; you're keen;
You've seen he gene and yet you wean
The kerosene, and so you lean
On the adenine; you're a machine
Of Augustine and Aberdeen,
Of red and green and in between;
You've seen the scene, and you demean
The lean teen queen in the green jeans.

You're done it all, and now we fall
On the floor; we crawl, like a caterwaul;
It seems absurd, and yet you've heard
The Holy Word, you dirty bird;
It seems you kill the Holy Will,
While you instill your heavy bill
That makes us cry and sigh and lie,
And makes our hearts just want to die.

You're an animal, wild and rough,
With a snarl of a jaguar.
You're quick; you're grim and gruff
With a smell like a cigar.
There's not skin that's thick or tough
Enough to recover from these red scars.
There aren't swear words bad enough
To describe the person that you are.


Paulie

I've got a brother who's half my age;
He's a ball of love or a ball of rage.
You've often got to tie him up in a cage,
But my brother, he is a thrill.
He sleeps right across from me in the bed;
If I wanted to, I could kick his head.
I'm often afraid that he's lying dead
When he's there so quiet and still.

My brother does have strong feelings,
And when he is the victim of bad dealings
Or when he falls down from the ceilings,
Often he does cry.
My little brother likes to tease,
But he also does like to appease,
And he likes to pretend that he likes bees,
Yeah, Paul is a good guy.

Paulie, he's a cool kid,
And we all love him, God forbid,
But he often forgets the work he did
For school lying on the floor.
But that's okay, hey, that's alright,
But often when I turn out the light,
He likes to sleepwalk by me in the night,
And he runs into the closed door.

One time an night, I heard him talk,
And he started his nocturnal walk,
And when I looked down into my clock,
It was the fourth hour of the day.
Well, Paul, he tripped and fell and cried
And a little part inside me died,
So I got up from where I lied
And said it would be okay.

Now, brothers are rude and brothers are lazy,
Brothers are weird and brothers are hazy,
Brothers are mean and brothers are crazy;
These things I do defend.
Brothers are stealthy and brothers are sneaky,
Brothers are tricky and brothers are cheeky,
Brothers are strange and brothers are creepy,
But Paulie is my best friend.


Don't

Don't step your toe out of line;
Don't claim your things, for all are mine;
Don't move around; don't stop and start;
Don't talk to girls; they'll break your heart;
Don't talk to boys; they'll take your soul;
Don't push; you'll forget to pull;
Don't pull; you'll forget to push;
Don't yell; you'll forget to shush;
Don't shush; you'll forget to yell;
Don't show; you'll forget to tell;
Don't tell; you'll forget to show;
Don't think; you'll forget to know;
Don't know; you'll forget to think;
Don't eat; you'll forget to drink;
Don't drink; you'll forget to eat;
Don't stand; you'll forget your seat;
Don't sit; you'll forget to stand;
Don't ask; you'll forget to command;
Don't command; you'll forget to ask;
Don't wait; you'll forget to task;
Don't task; you'll forget to wait;
Don't wait, or you might be late,
And if you're late, you'll well up with hate,
And you'll forget the face of fate,
And go to prom without a date,
And live your life without a mate,
And lose all everything that's great,
So follow these instructions,
And sign the dotted line;
Don't speak your interruptions,
And all you have is mine.


Ballad of a Fat Man

There was a man named Cody, and as strange as it sounds,
This Cody was a man who weighed 500 pounds.
People gossiped and gawked all around him all day,
And Cody just wanted to throw his whole life away.
He had many ideas, all of which would be foiled,
And his life (what a mess!), it could hardly be spoiled.

On one dull, dark evening, Cody was down,
So he thought to himself that he'd just like to drown
Himself in the lake, so he got in a boat,
And he jumped, but he just didn't drown; he did float,
And his fat was so great that he never just sank,
But his fat, bloated body washed up on the bank.

When Cody got home, he was done with his life,
So he went in the drawer and pulled out a sharp knife,
And he stabbed it straight down, through his fat, toward his heart,
And the red, it ran out, like a great piece of art,
But the knife was too short, and the heart never reached
The tip of the knife, but for death he beseeched.

Cody knew it must end, so he went to the top
Of a twenty story building, so nothing could stop,
As his body'd fall down and he'd fall to his death,
And so Cody jumped off there, while holding his breath,
But when he hit the gray pavement, his fat, it did bounce,
And he lived, much alive, without losing an ounce.

When Cody stopped bouncing, he still had some hope
Of killing himself, so he got a thick rope,
Which he made to a noose, and in earnest he spoke,
But those words weren't his last, because the rope, it just broke
Under the 500 pounds; he had put all his weight
On the poor, little noose, and he welled up with hate.

Then, Cody just knew that his life, it was done,
So he went in the closet and he got out his gun,
And he tried hard to shoot it, but his finger was bigger
Than the small little compartment that protected the trigger.
Now Cody was mad, and threw the gun on the shelf,
Because he realized he was too fat to even kill himself.

Cody was sad, and Cody, he sighed,
And he lost all his mind, and he lost all his pride,
And he knew that he'd done everything that he'd tried,
So he covered his eyes, and he fell down and cried,
And he tumbled right over and fell on his side,
And just then from his sadness, he rolled over and died.


The Ghost of Tom Stone

The rider's horse padded swiftly through the night.
The man hoped to reach the county before daylight.
Nothing, but the demons left and right,
Which circled him and filled his mind with fright.

The traveler drove quickly, but in vain,
And the nothingness around drove him insane.
Not a single sound disturbed the dreary silence,
Except the ghosts that crossed his path and wished for violence.

The rider swayed in his saddle and regressed
To a sleepy state, when his horse whinnied in distress.
Then the rider realized he was on his own
On the dark and dreary night, and he felt alone.

The man was shaken suddenly by a voice
That he wasn't sure was real, which gave a choice
To return and go home safely, and he'd live to tell,
Or continue straight down this path toward the gates of hell

He could turn around in fear, but keep his name,
Or suffer for his choices in the demonic flame.
This voice was different from the human kind,
And the traveler mistook it as a figment of his mind.

The traveler's horse beat roughly down the track,
And the traveler felt an odd sensation on his back,
As he passed an old ghost town, and an eerie cave,
A tumbleweed, and a lonely, unmarked grave.

Just then, a lonesome figure entered his sight
In the distance, who glowed softly in the moonlight.
This figure, lonely, rode upon his horse,
And had stumbled upon and crossed the traveler's course.

The traveler twinged with fright and felt a chill,
When he recognized the rider on the hill.
The traveler was terrified and haunted to his bone,
When he realized the figure was Tom Stone.

The night was dark, but the pale moonlight shone
Upon the cold and ghastly figure of Tom Stone,
Who sat upon his horse upon the bridge,
And stared up at the gallows, past the bridge.

The traveler knew that he must turn and run,
But he knew he was too late when he heard the crack of the shotgun.
The traveler's horse whinnied and bucked, for it was newly branded,
And it ran off without his rider, leaving the traveler stranded.

The traveler tried to run, but there was nowhere to hide
From the terror of the killer, and he cried
Out for help, but there was no one to hear his groan,
Except the dreaded, ruthless ghost of Tom Stone.

The ghostly rider rode up on his horse,
Which galloped boldly, running with such force
That it morbidly displayed Tom Stone's great vanity,
As he playfully toyed around with the traveler's sanity.

The traveler looked at the ghost's face without a breath,
And he realized he stared at the face of death.
The disturbance in the night brought so much fear,
But there wasn't enough time to shed a tear.

The lonesome traveler had stumbled down a path
That was haunted by a ghost of terrible wrath,
And was ignorant enough to come alone
Along the lonely path, haunted by the demon of Tom Stone.

The traveler was never seen again,
But his loss of life and soul are remembered by all men,
So take this as a warning: Don't travel alone
On the lonely path that's haunted by Tom Stone.


The Strangest Person I Ever Met

The strangest person I ever met
Has a bird named Yoda as a pet
That flutters around,
Says, "Thank you," 1,000 times a day;
It pecks at the ground,
Interrupts every word you say.
The craziest thing is that its master
Preaches all day, like a pastor.
She flies all around and is graciously rude,
Then thanks you all day for being subdued.
She'll float all around and jerks, and she'll twitch,
Like the bird, and you can hardly tell which is which.

The last time I saw her, she was with her spouse
At no place other than the old whorehouse.
She stared at the floor and took off her clothes,
Then balled them all up and blew her nose.
I told her, and I said, "Of course,
You might consider a divorce,"
And she went to the counter and got her gun,
And said to me I'd better run.
Oh, me? I ran, but I tripped and fell,
And now I'm at the gates of hell.

They say she invented the squeegee by mistake.
She invented inventions, for Christ's sake!
She had the idea of ideas.
She was the first to think of thoughts.
She hypothesized hypotheses.
She was the first to philosophy philosophies.
She froze all the whiskey.
Her kids are just strays on the run.
Friar Lawrence took a bribe.
She feeds herself with a loaded gun.


Ally

My beautiful Ally, with whom I'm in love,
How did you descend from heaven above?
If the god I believe in is beautiful too,
Then God must be a woman, and must look a lot like you.

Ally, your name's written in stone in the sky,
And the saints and angels sing it as they pass, marching by.
Ever since I have known you, my heart is much bigger.
Are you a saint or an angel, you heavenly figure?

Ally, I know of a field in the park,
Where I know we should tiptoe and meet after dark;
It's just down the street, past the old Whittley house.
We can meet there in secret and as quiet as a mouse.

We could cuddle and lay there and kiss in the grass,
And hold and hug each other as the time would slowly pass.
You would quietly giggle, and I'd whisper my charms,
Until we'd both fall asleep there with you in my arms.

With your hands around my waist and my face by your eyes,
We'd calmly cuddle until the warming sunrise,
When we would wake up and find ourselves covered in dew,
And we'd be alone there together in love, me and you.

Ally, I hear that the angels cry your name,
As their hearts are on fire, like my own is aflame.
By love, we are fastened together, like glue,
Even though you're too good for me, and I don't deserve you.


Thinking of You

I have a feeling I cannot hide;
I have a feeling that won't subside;
I have a feeling that's overdue;
I have a feeling that I love you.

Honey, you're a friend to me;
You're more than a friend, and that's plain to see.
The thing that I love the most about you
Is that you care for me and love me too.

You're beautiful in every way,
And I miss you every day.
Your words hit me with so much bliss
That I just can't stand it without a kiss.

I'm so lovesick and so alone,
And I can't bear to be on my own,
But you make me feel so much greater,
And fill my heart's big gaping crater.

I miss you, and I want your kisses;
I'll be the mister; you be the missus.
I dream about you whatever I do,
And I just can't stop thinking of you.


My Sweetness

She's my little baby girl;
I'll love her as long as the world does twirl.
She is my match, my little twin;
I'll love her as long as the world does spin.
She's my finish, she's my completeness;
She's my honey pie, my ball of sweetness.

She is a good girl in every way;
She makes me happy every day.
When she's gone, she lets me miss her;
When she's here, she lets me kiss her.
She saves me from my loneliness,
And I love her, because she's my sweetness.

Her eyes are blinding with their blue,
And I'm just shocked she loves me too.
She's sweet and tasty as a sugar square,
And I'm blown away by her utmost care.
My apologies for my sappiness,
But she's my ball of happiness.

She lifts me up when I am down.
If her love was liquid, I would drown
From happiness, but she would smile,
And we'd be in love for all the while;
We'd hug and kiss and sing and rhyme
And dance in heaven until the end of time.


The Power of Numbers

All the rapers and the perverts are burning in hell,
And they all hail Satan with their almighty yell.
All the molesters and the pedophiles and those of sexual abuse,
All feel a strong urge to reproduce.
They spin it around in their warped, twisted mind,
And reproduce quickly, expanding their kind.

The power of numbers, and the scales are tipped.
The power of numbers, and the tables are flipped.
The power of numbers, and the old and the wise
Will be slain by the sinners with hate in their eyes.
The weak are defeated and the stronger will win.
The saints stand no chance against the power of sin.

Well, the saints up in heaven, they're a dying breed.
They're good and they're holy and righteous, indeed.
All the virgins are lonely with no kids of their own.
They pray, but they get sick and die all alone.
Only a select, chosen few didn't get sent to hell,
And the power of numbers will take them as well.

The power of numbers, and the scales are tipped.
The power of numbers, and the tables are flipped.
The power of numbers, and the old and the wise
Will be slain by the sinners with hate in their eyes.
The weak are defeated and the stronger will win.
The saints stand no chance against the power of sin.

All the offenders shout, "Supreme Satan galore!"
Then live out their lusts with some sick, slutty whore,
Who's burning in hell, and she's serving her time
For her prostitution, and that's an ironic crime,
Because it makes up an army for the demonic ranks,
And they're loading their rifles and arming their tanks.

The power of numbers, and the scales are tipped.
The power of numbers, and the tables are flipped.
The power of numbers, and the old and the wise
Will be slain by the sinners with hate in their eyes.
The weak are defeated and the stronger will win.
The saints stand no chance against the power of sin.

Well, heaven and hell were just bound to collide
In one hell of a battle, where only one side
Could come out on top, while the other is destroyed,
And the losers would stand defeated and bitter, paranoid
On a field of battle, where the winner encumbers
The losers, surrounded by the power of numbers.

The power of numbers, and the scales are tipped.
The power of numbers, and the tables are flipped.
The power of numbers, and the old and the wise
Will be slain by the sinners with hate in their eyes.
The weak are defeated and the stronger will win.
The saints stand no chance against the power of sin.


Brokenhearted

I'd give it all away
To have you as my wife,
Because I can't live a day
Without you in my life.
I curse all my belongings
And hate every thing
That stands between these longings
And a gold, diamond ring,
And honey, I know that we're just getting started,
But I just can't help feeling brokenhearted.

Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
I just can't stand to be on my own.
Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
I just can't stand to be alone.

Sometimes at night,
Your image makes me cry,
And even in the daylight,
My daydreams make me sigh.
You are my drug, you,
You make me high.
You love me too,
And I don't even know why.
I can't even imagine our ways being parted,
But I just can't help feeling brokenhearted.

Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
I can't go living without you.
Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
Please just love me, honey, do.

The love I feel
Is so strong
That it could melt steel
For the whole day long,
And if it did,
I just might frown,
Because if your love was a fluid,
I just might drown.
Our love is so great that it remains uncharted,
And it leaves me feeling brokenhearted.

Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
Without you, all I do is frown.
Brokenhearted, brokenhearted,
You lift me up when I am down.


I Believe

I believe in God the Father, and his Son, who came to earth
Through the power of the Spirit, to a mother by humble birth.
I believe he was handed over and killed for the sake of men.
I believe that he died, but three days later rose again.
He ascended into heaven and is seated at the Father's right hand,
Which will not hesitate to follow what the Son will command.
I believe that we will pay for our sins in the years ahead,
And the Son will judge all beings, both the living and the dead.
I believe in one Spirit, whose hot, burning love
Floats down upon the earth like the glide of a dove.
I believe in one Church and one God-chosen Pope,
Who brings upon the people one new holy hope
Of returning to the Father and uniting once more
In the heavenly communion, where all will bless and adore.
I believe in the great mercy of God and his choice to forgive
Us of all of our sins, so that we might live
In a new world created on that judgement day,
And will replace all the former realms, which will all fade away,
As heaven will marry, with the earth as its wife,
And their inhabitants will coexist and experience eternal life.
I believe the righteous will be rewarded and zealous will win,
And they will live, one together, in a world free of sin.
I believe in one Body and one Spirit conceived
In love, but the most important thing is that I do believe.


[Schiltzberg's note: The following poem was written by my good friend Red alert 2-earth. I would like to thank him for all of his support of me and for the time and effort he put into writing this poem and expanding on the character of Tom Stone. Thanks, Red Alert, for all your support, and please keep writing. :) Readers, also keep in mind that this is not an official part of the Tom Stone trilogy, just another ghost tale that may or may not be true. It is a legend, after all. :P]

Another Tale of Tom Stone
Written by: Red alert 2-earth

Another traveler on the haunted path,
A weary foreigner who knows not the danger.
Unaware of Tom Stone's approaching wrath,
Far from the sheriff, away from any ranger.

The phantom swooped in, about to grasp the man,
And noticed that the poor fool was admiring a locket.
Tom Stone's ghostly gaze did a quick scan,
And a ghostly tear fell from his ghostly eye socket.

For in the locket was a picture of the wanderer's son,
Inscribed in it was "Junior", confirming the fact.
An X on the face proved the boy's life was done.
Grief filled Tom Stone, he knew not how to act.

Then the man put the locket in his coat,
And trembling, took out a wanted poster.
His rage became apparent, the poster seemed to gloat;
James Curo was wanted for setting houses on fire.

Tom Stone felt fury, and it knew no end;
He knew that he had found his next kill.
Another victim, with flesh to rend,
A vermin to exterminate, blood to spill.

He left the wanderer in peace, an almost alien action,
Flying up above as an angel of death,
But not from God or the Devil, but of his own faction;
Fury in his being, murder on his breath.

He looked through the towns, through each nook and cranny;
His piercing gaze found the target he sought.
Then, with anger that mortals would find uncanny,
He tore into the offender that he had finally caught.

That night, the screams echoed throughout the village,
Striking fear in the hearts of those who would end lives.
Tom Stone had become justice's new visage,
So think twice about murder before Tom Stone arrives.


Bad

It's probably unhealthy to hate life this much.
They tell me to call the doctor and such and such,
But the only thing better and the thing I don't hate
Is at any moment I might drop dead and finish my fate.
You win some, you lose some is bullshit and everyone knows.
Everyone dies, it just depends how quickly the cancer grows.
It's true that we live and it's true that we're born,
But all I can say is I loathe that cold morn;
I'd honestly be happy to scratch off that day
From the history of the world and make it just go away.
I try not to be cynical, but it's all that I feel,
When I get no response when I pray and I kneel.
Jesus, forgive me if I die in this room
On this dark, dreary day of my sorrow and gloom,
But I simply can't help it when everything's wrong,
When the night is too short, when the day is too long,
And after I die with my falling from grace,
I'll become a spirit and torment this place.
I'll be turning out lights, locking locks, slamming doors,
Speaking voices, making noises, my footsteps clanging on the hardwood floors.
I'll haunt this damned house until it's no longer around,
Stripped to the framing and torn to the ground.
If nothing more, I hope that after I leave,
I can change someone's life and cause them to believe.


Old Shoes

The shoes are old and filled with holes
That compliment the flapping soles.
The shoes are tattered and over-worn,
The leather ripped and the fabric torn.
The soles are broken and the rubber battered,
The color faded and the leather tattered.

A hole that's letting in the light
Plagues the shoe that's on the right,
And on the left is a gaping tear
Where the rain gets in, as does the air.
The edges peel and are turning gray,
As the shine and colors fade away.

Every scratch does tell a tale
Of times of happiness or times so stale.
Every blemish does tell a story
Of times of sadness or times of glory.
Times of joy and times of blues
Are spoken by these broken shoes.

So many feet must have been walked;
So many words must have been talked.
So many steps, so many miles
Just turned these shoes to lumpy piles.
So many leagues must have been traveled
To tear these seams, which have come unraveled.

So many years, so many days,
But these shoes haven't gone their separate ways.
They never priced much, a humble cost,
But these two shoes were never lost.
They're just a pair, like a bird and feather,
And through it all, they are together.

No one knows what these shoes have seen;
Nobody knows where these shoes have been;
Nobody knows who owned these things,
Just held together by fraying strings.
So many stories to be told
About these shoes, so very old.


Unconventional Apocalypse

The doomsday happened when I was taking a crap,
Suffering constipation and fighting a nap.
I feel like a victim and I feel like a fool
To die a lonely man with my ass covered in stool.

The hinges all snapped and down went the door,
And the toilet paper unrolled all over the floor.
The sink was busted and the pipes all broke,
And all was silent, as no one spoke.

The doomsday happened when I was dropping a load
In an empty public bathroom on the side of the road.
The sun turned black and the stars all fell,
And they sent my soul right back to hell.

The porcelain cracked and it cut my ass,
Then the room got flooded with sewer gas.
Some cold water sprayed like a garden hose,
And it wet my face and filled my nose.

The doomsday happened when I was dropping a duke,
And everyone died and got hit by the nuke.
I never envisioned that I was supposed
To die buck naked with my body exposed.

The mirror cracked up, which hurt it even more
Than the graffitied names that were there before.
The pipes were busted up and the water did pour,
As the plunger tipped over and landed on the floor.

The doomsday happened when I was taking a dump,
And the world just ended with one big thump.
The ceiling caved in right above my head,
And it cracked my skull and left me dead.


God Is a Poet

God is a poet.
I think that you know it.
Sometimes he'll write it
In a way that you'll fight it,
But God is a poet.

God is a baker.
He's a splendid food maker.
Sometimes he'll bake it
In a way you'll mistake it,
But God is a baker.

God is a talker.
He's a fast-paced walker.
Sometimes he'll rear it
In a way you'll mishear it,
But God is a talker.

God is a creator
In a way that's much greater.
Sometimes he'll make it
In a way you can't take it,
But God is a creator.

God likes to draw
Until his fingers are raw.
Sometimes he'll show it
In a way you won't know it,
But God likes to draw.

God is a poet.
I think that you know it.
Sometimes he'll write it
In a way that you'll fight it,
But God is a poet.


The Angel

The angel sits and dreams
About the land from which she came;
The fertile land of milk and honey,
Where the roads don't bear a name.
The angel sits and contemplates
Good and bad and calmly waits,
Watching over the sovereign states
That rule in their shame.

The angel's hair is promptly curled
By the winds that made the world,
And the dusts that made the sun
Wrap around her one by one
To form a red and white silk dress,
Which the heavens seem to bless,
So that the angel won't need to care
About her beauty or her hair,
Because it is so beautifully unfurled.

The way she sits so softly makes me forsake the world of rhyme.
She forsakes the laws of time,
None of which she seems to see,
Even though she seems to be
Like a mermaid in the sea,
Not the same as you or me.
She'll have her face put on the dime
To stop the crime.

The red lace sits in a braid of her hair,
And her shoulder left gaping bare,
So quietly she seems to stare
At the peaceful world below.
And her smile seems to know
How the universe does grow,
And why around the world the moon must go,
And how the sun does know to glow.
The angel's heart beats so slow,
As the wind blows through her hair.

Her stature suggests royalty,
Her determined face, her loyalty,
And her dress a simple subtlety
To the beauty of her grace.
And the beauty of her face,
Her hair contrasted by the lace,
Aids the standing constant of her beauty.

I asked for her to be my queen,
But she's already more and in between.
To do so would be obscene,
Such a step down
To me, a clown,
So upside down,
My face painted brown
To cover the frown
So that my angel will not see.

The angel sits a beacon of love,
Descended down from heaven above,
And simply scorns the push and shove
Of the world and its fallacy.
Juliet on the balcony,
The angel is the one for me,
As she sits there waiting patiently.
Wearing a white and velvet glove.


The Girl That Could Have Been Mine

They say Jesus loves everyone, but that's all a lie.
If he loved us all, I wouldn't be left here to die,
Dreaming of a girl that can't be mine,
Dreaming of a girl who looks so fine.
Now she's got me seeing red.
Last night, I prayed she was dead.

I told her I loved her, but she didn't even care;
She just looked at me with a cold, deadly stare.
I said I'd break out of Auschwitz for her.
I don't think that even got her heart to stir.
She just stood there looking even colder than a mime,
But that girl could have been mine.

Now, she's got a new boyfriend; she says he knows where to find the booty.
She says he does what he can, and he knows to do his duty.
He thinks that he's the ghost of Thomas Tew,
And this girl told me that she knew
That he'd love her in any circumstance.
I'll kill him if I get the chance.

The writing in the stall scared the crap out of me.
The gum in the urinal made me have to pee.
I went to the zoo and the giraffe was gay.
I can't make these feelings go away.
I just have to know where to draw the line,
But that girl could have been mine.

The Holy Ghost is hiding in her cellar,
But I don't have the courage to go up and tell her.
Her parents are divorced, but Jesus doesn't care;
He's too fascinated by the locks of her hair.
I tell you that I'd do anything for that girl.
To me, she means the world.

Her dopey boyfriend calls his mother "Mambo."
Since she loves that man, I've got nowhere to go.
Cupid shot his bow, but the arrow missed.
I'd just like to love that girl that I kissed.
I want to love that girl that looks so fine;
I want the girl that could have been mine.

Her lazy boyfriend, he's a crazy fool;
He jumped from the staircase, because he thought it was a pool.
When he fell, he thought it was the end.
That's not an X, that's a swastika my friend.
You are what you eat, I've heard it said.
If that's true, I'm her boyfriend until I'm dead.

I won't keep you long, because I don't want to work ya,
But I swear, she'd look beautiful in a burka.
If she hadn't have left, things wouldn't be the same,
And every day I still call out her name,
But she's already past the exit sign.
That girl could have been mine.


For You

I know a man, he is an angel, he was the difference between a woman and a potato.
When you see him you wouldn't know if he was a flower or a raging tornado.
He rode up on a floaty, I heard he hasn't voted for years.
Chiara Lubich said she hated him and sneezed between her tears.

He identified as a woman, he said he had forgot his own name.
He was colorblind with numbers, and he told me that they all looked the same.
He said to do as he did and to not do a single thing he said;
He could never pull a trigger, but he told us all to kill ourselves dead.

I'm sorry I thought that was mistletoe, but I guess that now it's a little bit too late.
I'm just a middle aged office man that recently lost a little weight.
I'll change my name to Richard Starkley, no I won't, no, no, I know I won't.
I want to kill Richard Nixon, no I don't, no, I know it that I don't.

At the carnival last Sunday, I saw something so extraordinarily strange;
A foreigner called a fat woman pregnant while he was hiking in a hypothetical mountain range.
I went up to him and told him that there's nothing more dangerous than being scared.
I'm not quite sure if he heard me, but if he did, I'm pretty sure he never cared.

There was a man with his engine turned on in the middle of a parking garage.
I had to take a drink of water, because I thought it was a terrible mirage.
He walks up to me pleasantly, and patiently, but hurriedly he asks
If I would like to spend a buck or two and purchase one of his gas masks.

The enormity of God's love for me reminds me how little I love you.
I farted out your name and called out your breast size too.
You'll have to bolt all your doors, and maybe even lock all your locks.
I might have to call you Moby, and if I do, then you'll have to call me cock.

I got to church 20 minutes early, and I left it nearly an hour late.
I would have liked it, except that the whole time I was welling up with hate.
Jesus came down from the crucifix and told me I was his only friend,
But I couldn't speak his language, and I cried, because I thought it was the end.


Hobo Song

If I was a hobo, Id live on the streets,
Id shave in a box and sleep without sheets,
Id beg for a dollar and get dimes at my feet,
Id scramble all around with nothing to eat;
Thank God that Im not a hobo.

Im gonna throw Bill Gates a loop thats gonna throw him in debt.
Im gonna go find Bono; were gonna sing a duet.
I'm gonna save Robin Hood and buy him a six pack.
I'm gonna go help Gandhi burn the Union Jack.
It's an international war cry.

People are garbage; people are trash.
They walk on their knees with their heads black with ash;
They're 700 pounds and they're eating sloppy joes.
A beggar's dying in the alleyway and no one even knows.
At least they filled their stomachs.

If I was a hobo, Id live on the streets,
Id shave in a box and sleep without sheets,
Id beg for a dollar and get dimes at my feet,
Id scramble all around with nothing to eat;
Thank God that Im not a hobo.

Black robed ladies say the worst kind of prayer;
They say their Hail Marys and devoutly stare.
With passion, their eyes close as they pray on their knees.
A sick man's begging for a dollar, but nobody sees.
Whoever said that love is blindness?

I tried to get into the land of milk and honey;
I tried to pay the fee, but I hadn't any money.
Its a very merry Christmas, and I tried to deck the halls,
But Mr. Gorbachev tore down all the walls.
Doggone it, I'm getting rained on.

If I was a hobo, Id live on the streets,
Id shave in a box and sleep without sheets,
Id beg for a dollar and get dimes at my feet,
Id scramble all around with nothing to eat;
Thank God that Im not a hobo.


Waiting for My Day to Come

So many days I've been waiting.
I've been waiting now for so long.
For so many years I've been waiting,
Waiting and singing this song.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.

So diligently I've been waiting,
Standing at heaven's gate.
The gates are locked and fastened,
So patiently I wait.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.

For all of this time I've been waiting;
It's become an awful chore,
But anxiously I've been waiting
For the day I won't wait anymore.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.

For all of my life I've been waiting,
Waiting for a day that's not so glum.
So patiently I've been waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.

I'll be waiting, waiting
Until the day I'm in the ground.
And I'll be waiting, waiting
Until I'm heading to where I'm bound.

Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting for my day to come.


Eye of the Hurricane

You know it's been said so many a time that opposites attract.
Now I'm not here to call it false, because it's a proven fact,
But you and I are worth truly absolutely nothing at best;
If magnets pole at north and south, then we are east and west.

You can't pretend passion and you can't fake desire,
And pouring a bucket gasoline on a spark will put out the fire.
I tried to yield your comforts, but your words just caused me pain;
You're the apple of my eye; that's the eye of the hurricane.

They say one man's garbage is another man's gold, and I don't mean to be rash,
But some things are not worth saving and are worthless pieces of trash.
Here's what I say of everything, and you know what I'm thinking of:
It's impossible to be lovers when we lack the feeling of love.

I don't believe that blind love or true love really exists;
These things just appear that way because some people are too afraid to resist.
Your love has driven me crazy so much that I'm insane;
You're the apple of my eye; that's the eye of the hurricane.

It's like having more side effects than positives when taking a prescribed pill.
I'm a buck and you're a doe, but together we're roadkill.
Words are weapons that push you down with the crooked pictures they paint.
Guns and swords aren't weapons of evil, they're the maker of martyrs and saints.

Some people act so foolishly in goodness because they believe
That everything they give, then double that they will receive.
All these things are impossible and all must be in vain;
You're the apple of my eye; that's the eye of the hurricane.

There's no need to calm the storm when the sailors all have sunk.
There's no need to hold the bottle once the poison has been drunk.
There's no need to lend a hand when climber already fell.
There's no need to raise the dead when the dead are all in hell.

Eve, she picked an apple and she did take a bite,
And she was banned by angels and didn't put up a fight.
Adam lived in Eden, but Adam raised a Cain;
You're the apple of my eye; that's the eye of the hurricane.


The Storm It's a-Brewing

The sky has turned black,
And the rivers are burning.
The saints are in their graves,
And their bodies are turning.
Politicians shout corruption,
And their hearts are all frozen.
Their tongues are all twisted,
And their hands are all broken.

The churches are all empty
And burned to the ground.
The priests are all butchered
And sold by the pound.
The judges are wasted
And spending their time
Spending their money
And wasting our time.

The Sun is blotted out,
And the clouds begin to form.
The winds have all stopped,
And the birds sense the storm.
The forests are on fire,
And the oceans are stewing.
The waves, they are a-crashing,
And the storm, it's a-brewing.

The executioner washed his hands
Of a gentleman's blood.
A man called out for Jesus
When his soul was caked in mud.
His pockets were loaded,
And his clothes lined with gold,
But his coins, they all tarnish
After his spirit was sold.

The people are judging
And dividing themselves.
The thought of equality,
Just the dust on their shelves.
The Earth's started quaking,
And the rocks are pushed back.
The dead regain life,
And the Sun has gone black.

The Sun is blotted out,
And the clouds begin to form.
The winds have all stopped,
And the birds sense the storm.
The forests are on fire,
And the oceans are stewing.
The waves, they are a-crashing,
And the storm, it's a-brewing.

All the species are dying,
And all the policemen are shot.
Now our national flag
Is tied up in a knot.
The air is polluted,
And the ground is all hard.
All of our bodies
Are covered with lard.

All the children are dying,
And their mothers don't care.
A man and a woman
No longer make a pair.
We don't know our own genders.
We don't know our own names.
We don't know our religion.
We don't know from where we came.

The Sun is blotted out,
And the clouds begin to form.
The winds have all stopped,
And the birds sense the storm.
The forests are on fire,
And the oceans are stewing.
The waves, they are a-crashing,
And the storm, it's a-brewing.

God said to Noah
The storms wouldn't come again,
But even God never knew
The sinfulness of these men.
Sometimes I don't know
What this world is doing,
But the floods, they're a-coming,
And the storm, it's a-brewing.


The Story of Man

God went and made the sky,
And the winds went blowing by,
And then God made the stars,
Complete with the Moon, Pluto, and Mars,
And from the earth, God created the first man.

The man breathed and said, "Hi,"
And God said, "Hey there, little guy,"
And man said, "Who am I?"
God said, "You're Adam, my, oh my!"
And God chuckled from the heavens up above.

Adam was drinking Danimals
When God made all the animals,
And Adam wet his knackers
And said, "They look just like the crackers!"
And he named all of the species, one by one.

Then God showed man a creature
That had many a special feature,
And Adam, he said, "Whoa, man!
I'll call this thing a woman,"
And he fell in love with Eve there on that night.

Eve took advice how to be smart
From a snake, and trickery was his art.
He said, "Don't go to college;
Just pick from the Tree of Knowledge,"
And Eve took back two apples to their home.

Adam spoke to Eve,
As he hid behind a leave.
He said it kind of sly,
And he said it with a lisp.
He said, "Honey, can you pass the honey crisp?"

Then suddenly it came upon 'em
That the wind blew through his bottom,
And he said, "I've got no clothes!
What the devil is this hose?"
And he stood there looking baffled for some time.

And then, Adam felt the shame,
And for the first time, felt the pain,
As his son Able was slain
By his older brother Cain.
Eve and Adam had only themselves to blame.

Now, all the pains we're in
Trace back to that first sin.
All of our pain and crime
Just feed back to that first time
In Eden, when our parents took a bite.


(Co-written by Red alert 2-earth and myself. He did all of it, except I just wrote the end.)

Gunter, Betty, and the Wayfaring Yeti

There once were two hunters, Gunter and Betty.
They went off into the mountains, seeking the yeti;
Day-long they climbed, no fanfare or confetti.
They camped and rested, tired and sweaty.

Then came their prey, smelling of spermaceti;
It went through their bags, stealing their spaghetti,
Taking their money too, like Eric Garcetti,
Leaving their camp trashed as if it hit a bouncing betty.

After it left, awoke Betty and Gunter.
An argument erupted between each hunter.
Gunter turned on Betty, and even shunt her,
And then Betty whooped the one who would affront her.

The moral of the story and the ending is queer;
Its best to interpret when you had a little beer.
The loss of brain cells will make it all clear;
The story was linear, but you must view it as a sphere.

Betty lost her belongings to the forces of outside,
Broke off from a friend whom she was formerly allied.
Some would view this as an emotional equivalent of a broadside,
But in the process of all this, Betty retained and gained pride.

Gunter got a broken nose, and lost a few teeth.
Some internal organs took damage underneath.
Returned empty-handed to his humble heath,
A victim of a pride that he learned to sheath.

As for the yeti, nobody knows,
But sometimes he's seen at times when it snows
With hands full of money and a mouth of spaghetti...
Or so goes the tale of the wayfaring yeti.


(Written by Red alert 2-earth as a parody of my first poem, "The Raven Tree," which can be found here.)

The Raven Tree 2

Behold my parody of your first poem;
If you have friends available, be sure to show 'em.
"The Bump-A-Rumper" is it's name,
If my elder fold saw it they would feel great shame.

Durst thou thinketh of the pear tree?
Tis but a plant
Whose fruit makes one wish to bump a rump,
And makes ones legs do quite the hump.

Are thine thoughts centered on the gallop?
The rushing motion that shakes thy bones,
And makes thine stomach and it's contents tremble.
Makes men go queasy and tests their mettle,
Lest they tremble at the unknown.

Hump goes the bump-a-rumper
Off to plunder yet another
Rump of the village down under,
Below his cave, above and yonder,
Fleeing from his victim's father

Into his lair he goes,
Stifling a cackle as he arrives,
His bump-a-rumping was many a virgin's demise.
Among his clutter and in his cave, the savage
Searched for another rump, for him to ravage.


One Day

One day, he was born
On an uneventful morn.
Was the worst day since Stalin's death.
His mom was hooking up on meth.
His mama said she just forgot;
Had to take another shot.

He's not Bob; he's not Bruce;
He's not Woody; what's the use?
His mind is a death trap.
He sleeps in his own crap.
He don't got enamel.
His dad's the first mammal.
He signs his name in pencil.
He draws himself with stencil.
He's cut; don't know where they're from.
Just stepped in a little gum.
He stole from the graveyard
A flower and a wet card.
He lives in a mobile home
That features its own little dome,
Built on the ash of Sodom
With cherries on the bottom.

He was so very nice.
He was so very skilled.
He gave a lone dollar bill
To every Jew that Hitler killed.
Was a friend to all men.
Saved the world with a pen.
They all called him Frankenstein,
But he said he wasn't Frank,
So they called him Lukenstein.
Told him that it was a prank.
He thought his middle name was Earl.
Wrote the song "Here Comes My Girl."
He was an MLB umpire,
But they forced him to retire,
Because he dreamed he threw up
And it didn't add up.
It made him scream and shout,
And, because they could, they threw him out.

One day, he met some dudes,
Asked them if they'd send him nudes.
They asked him if he wanted coke;
He couldn't cuz he had to smoke.
He stole their souls, like Satan does,
Replaced them all with replicas.

One day, he got sick.
Woke up with a hairless dick;
Woke up without his clothes,
Pink painted on his toes;
Woke up and his palms were wet;
Wasn't sure if it was sweat;
Woke up, had a flash fart;
Sold it as a piece of art.
Then, the drug stealer,
Who was a faith healer
Was hit by five motorbikes
And a sixteen-wheeler's spikes.
"My friend," he'd send,
"Don't mend." The end.


You Can't Escape From Me

I'm the monster under your bed
That's haunting you when you can't sleep.
I'm the voice inside your head
That knows the secrets you don't speak.
I'll kill your spirit, shoot you dead,
Burn your heart, your soul I'll keep.
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from me.

You can shed yourself a tear;
You can hide behind a tree;
You can pretend that you can't hear;
You can pretend that you can't see;
You can try to just steer clear,
But wherever you go, I'll be.
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from me.

I'm sending you to your grave,
And you know my hand is steady.
I'm the master, you're my slave,
And you know my whips are ready.
You want to fly to the heaven you crave,
But your sins are just too heavy.
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from me.

You can shed yourself a tear;
You can hide behind a tree;
You can pretend that you can't hear;
You can pretend that you can't see;
You can try to just steer clear,
But wherever you go, I'll be.
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from me.

Your whole life, we've played hide and seek,
But how long can you hide?
You hear temptations in the floors that creak;
How long can you keep it inside?
You were taught to pray and turn the other cheek,
But how long since you've tried?
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from me.

You can shed yourself a tear;
You can hide behind a tree;
You can pretend that you can't hear;
You can pretend that you can't see;
You can try to just steer clear,
But wherever you go, I'll be waitin'.
You can give me your holes, you can give me your souls,
But you can't escape from Satan.


Ballad of Woody Bell

Once there lived an honest man
Named Woody Bell. A modest farm he ran.
He never had vice, not tobacco, beer, or rum,
But one year, the droughts, they did come.
He looked over a dead field on one sunset,
And Woody cried to find himself in debt.

The honest man could not pay back a dime,
And suddenly his debt became a crime.
The judge opened his chair and said, "You did steal
$10,000 worth of livestock, crop, and meal."
"No," said Woody, "I just can't afford to pay."
"But that's all the same," the judge went on to say.

"Please forgive me," Woody cried. "I'll pay my time.
What is the punishment for this crime?"
The judge just looked away and hung his head,
And at that moment, Woody knew that he was dead.
"Your punishment," the mocking jury sang,
"Is that some time or other, you must hang."

But then, Woody's lonesome daughter took a stand,
And took her condemned father by the hand.
"Consider this," she asked the judge in shame,
"Forgive this man and clear his name;
For I can't bear to live if he is dead.
I beg you, judge, to take me instead."

The judge just sat and turned his head,
And considered what the poor girl had said.
He found it odd to offer her demise,
But spoke with pity in his eyes,
"My grievances, dear lady, but you should know
That I will see to it that it is so."

"But wait!" cried her lover from the floor.
"Don't close the case; don't close the door!
I love her for every grain of sand
In the ocean, for she is the fairest in the land.
I tell you, I can't live without my wife,
So judge, please spare my girl and take my life."

The judge was greatly moved and felt a start,
And a string was plucked within his heart.
He looked down and his heart weighed a ton.
He proceeded and said to him, "My son,
Though it was not you who did this deed,
As it's your wish, I have agreed."

"Wait!" cried out another from the crowd.
"That's my brother!" he cried so loud.
"I can't bear to see the spot he's in;
He grew up as my brother, my kin.
I grew up with him right by my side.
Please take me instead, and for him I'll have died."

The judge was distressed and greatly moved,
And spoke to Woody, "Your debts are removed.
Indeed, I am a rich man, and I'll pay
For any of your debts; go on your way.
I can't bear to condemn this whole town."
And from the bench, the judge stepped down.

After this, the judge did change
From seeing a case that was so strange,
And for the first time, this judge saw
That the very purpose behind the law
Was not to condemn such honesty.
Not to condemn, but to set free.

And so, that's the tale of Woody Bell,
And for itself the story speaks so well.
From old age, Woody died after many years,
And his family and friends shed many tears.
Woody died, his soul clean of sin,
An honest man of honest kin.



Well, it looks like I've maxed out ANOTHER factbook. If you would like to continue on, check out Part III here.

The Grand Duchy of Schiltzberg

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