Apparently I'm the Muffin Man I don't live on Drury Lane But when faced with mounds of baked goods I choose the muffin...again Apparently I'm the Muffin Man I'm not a fan of change So when there are no muffins It causes me some strain I know that I'm the Muffin Man And what you might not see I find a comfort in consistency That soothes anxiety.
When the clarity of youth has faded and left you with a world view smeared in shades of grey You still carry the same values But a fear of loss Has obscured them with too many coats of gloss
(image from this article about slacktivism)
There's a harsh beauty in her her fairer sister can never hope to possess. It can't be replicated only worn in over time like a fine patina Stews of rich red wine with musky herbs of depth and desire added slowly over time A beauty that creeps on you like a dreich November fog Settling the silence of a soft Sunday lie in. Tea, toast and icy cuddles
(image by dark777fairy)
No sense of right or wrong
No concept of race
No beliefs of any kind
No team or tribe
No favourite colour (mine is green)
No spelling for colo(u)r
No expectations or aspirations
Just life for the living.
No beer, no fun No wine, no puns No whisky, no chatter No Vodka, no laughter No Bourbon, no pranks No Gin, (I never really liked gin) Never was a one drink boy Giving but never feeling joy
(image credit chaosrenzo)
Try to wear your own words Not mine But if you need some help Borrow mine for a time Words are like underpants You can wear another's But it won't feel right It is always better to wear your own or go commando.
(image by stradesgaybitch)
Poetry doesn't have to rhyme At least not all the time It's not a crim--inal offence.
Image by (angelobscura)
Ha ha the jokes on you Got a young man's hat But an old man's shoes You occasionally orbit into style Laika mummified fashionphyle
(Image by brokenchair)
The peacock of the rodent world Your basically a well dressed rat With the poise of a circus acrobat.
(image credit pxieplayland)
It's 7pm and all's not well We hoped tonight that you'd sleep....well now the clock says half past 8 And your still in an awful state It's 10pm and all's not well Even the neighbours can tell That your not happy and don't want sleep And your groaning is piercing deep It's the witching hour and all's not well Your cryings really hard to quell It's quickly turning into screaming But your eyes are closed, are you dreaming? It's 2am and all's not well There really is an awful smell I guess I'll have to change your bum Maybe i should ask your mum It's 3am and all's not well You settled for a little spell But feline squabbles over scraps Woke you up...it feels pure crap It's 4am and all's not well I'm trying to stifle a yell Told you to shhhh it's time to sleep You shhhh'd me back and threw your sheep It's 5am and all is well we survived another night in hell Time to nap and get a fix Shame we have to get up at 6.
(image by brokendeathangel)