Na-Nu Na-Nu, tis Nanu driving the bus.

Mork calling Orson , come in Orson.
Mork calling Orson, come in Orson.
Shazbatt, this eircom internet phone is shite.

Anyways I is still wallowing adrift in the doldrums like a harpooned fat bloke but inspired by top scientist and French underwater yodelling champion NanU and her wonderful challenge to write a poem using some blogger word verifications, I have lifted the dark veil long enough to slip a couple of poems out underneath.
Both of them are based on awful songs.The first is for the bus challenge the second is for no reason other than the first one isn't very good and if I can't manage quality I'll have a bash at quantity.
See all the other passengers HERE

My little opumpernickle.

Asnops and coadils,
cargsaflies and ghelees,
fiardots and fifgermin,
things smelling of poo,
dead fish and razor blades,
remind me of you.

Snagulls and fatxanes,
things of the skijtsarin,
winds that go diytarin,
botulism, bronchitus,
vomit on my shoe,
neon slyites,
graggle skies, or brelue,
all kinds of everything remind me of you

Sumberline,
wincdebing, pissing
spring and autumn too,
bloody Sunday, feckin Monday,
black Tuesday, every day
I think of you.
Your fgances,
rporices, like foul
things of the night,
mildew and dersubs,
decidus to write.
Mingystne trees,
autumn leaves,
a spaglog or two,
all kinds of everything remind me of you.

She
May be the face i can't forget
no trace of pleasure just regret
no man could bear the price i have to pay
She may be the song that the Banshee sings
May be the chill that a plane crash brings
May be a hundred terrible things
Within the eternity of a day.

She
is no beauty more a beast
in a famine she’d be a feast
could turn each day from heaven to hell
She may be the ogre in my dreams
A smile that launched a thousand screams
slug like and rank is just how she seems
Inside her shell

You could never lose her in a crowd
her foghorn voice was far too loud
one scowl could make small children run and cry
I pray my life it will not last
that this hellish existence will be quickly past
I’m just praying for the day I die

Drink
May be the reason I survive
for every day disappointment that I’m alive
The one I'll love all through the rough and ready years
miles from happy laughter, now bathed in tears
pain and bitterness my souvenirs
For where she goes I've got to be
The ball and chain of my life is

She, she, she

Disclaimer. Please note these words are all the fig leaf of my imagino and in no way reflect upon any human female living or dead, particularly not Mrs EEjit (the third) who is lovely altogether and is in charge of all the knives in the castle.