A-a-ack! Satan’s grim!
Who'd dance with him…?
But, now I'm here.
E-bay my bier!
Curse the dark 'n'
Philip Larkin.
Di-
(I fear I
see)
-es irae.
Enough's enough!
(Putsch came to “shuff-.”*)
* As
in “...-le off this
mortal coil.”
Fault's my own.
I shoulda known.
God's call'd Bel.
(She's black as well.)
Though out I'd opt,
he* kindly stopp’d.
* Cf. Emily
Dickenson’s #479.
I died. You lied.
(Ironicide…?)
Jus' like I tol' ya:
no magnolia.
Kiss good-bye yer
ass, young Squire!
Less is more…?
A metaphor.
Memento
mori.
(No one’s sorry.)
No sound; no sight;
no shit: "Good" night*?
*
As in Thomas’s
“Do
not go gentle…”
Off blocks, my chips.
Apocalypse!
Pride had shit
to do with it.
Quick or dead,
this ain't my bed.
"Ripley said..."?
(But Ripley’s dead.)
Suspend the search!
Arrivederch!
To be…? I'd not.
So: off the pot.*
* As in “shit
or get…”
Upside...? None.
No mon-, no fun.
Very, very
"Alighieri."
What the hell...?
I'd been so well.
X times three...?
I can't agree.
Yes, it's hot,
though dry it's not.
Zen di'n't work.
I've been a jerk!
PlaysWellWithLetters is a blogorrheal notebook of Nonsense in rhyming metres accompanying often-inconsequential sequencial graphics all issuing from the hands and/or minds of Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee, amateur author/illustrator whose several books are available online from Politics & Prose Bookstore under the nom de charade Ulysses Poe.
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