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by Johnny Crimson

The sunlight left an arctic char
on everything the auctioneer had touched.
Running back towards the baggage car
he passed a balsam fir that grew
balsam pears.

He ran from a barking deer
and a belgian hare
whom he had named belvedere.

He put on his bevel gear
and began to bevel a square.
He is far from being a billionaire,
he too often is watching the blazing star.

He doesn't know a thing about being a bombardier.
Although, in the Marines he was a brigadier.
A much more brittle star.
A buccaneer, or bumper car.
Like a cable car made of camel's hair.

He was as hard as a candy bar as a young cavalier.
He liked to spell chandelier but drove a chevalier.

He kept quite civil, you could say he had a civil year.
He would often tend to commandeer a common task,
which made this a common year.

He was into compressed air when he was a connoisseur.
He put many dimes in the cookie jar, they called him croix de guerre.

It was crystal clear,
he was debonair.
You could tell by his dental care,
he received in his dining car.
Which has since disappeared
after showing up in disrepair.

He's quite the doctrinaire
when he decides to domineer.
His chevrons were a double bar.
In the war he received a double star
while staring at a douglas fir
from the comfort of his easy chair.

His friends name was Edward Lear,
he was a water cooler engineer
who drove an estate car
and always said his evening prayer.

He also prayed to an evening star,
though he was the financier
for the past fiscal year.

He dreamt of a flying mare
it was quite the force majeure.
He held a heavy spar
every holy year, with a honey bear.

He once held an iceland spar,
but it was immature.
He was punched in his inner ear.
It was quite shocking and insincere.

He would often not interfere
with the particles flying in the air.
He once attended a laissez faire,
he flew there without his landing gear.
He ended up landing in the latin square
in a plane the size of a leyden jar.

He drank liquid air,
he stole from a little bear
who wrote of a magical love affair,
once or twice a lunar year.

The bear wrote of a magic square
kept inside a mason jar.
Not middle earth he called it middle ear,
he's something of a dream millionaire.

Though when he'd say his morning prayer,
he couldn't see the morning star.
He'd sit in his phillip morris chair,
and pretend to be a movie star.

Maybe he could be a musketeer,
a mutineer,
a neutron star,
from nom de guerre.

He worked for NPR
and enjoyed the open air.
He had a scar on his outer ear.
What was overheard he would often not overhear.

In the peace movement he was a pamphleteer,
who drove a parlor car.
Like a patrol car,
but this thing could persevere
while sipping pinot noir.

Quite the pioneer,
he could take on a polar bear.
He stared at the polar star
from the mildew stained backseat of a police car.

He taught his son about the potty chair,
though maybe a bit premature.
He gave him a prickly pear.
His son was also a profiteer,
regardless of the amount of pubic hair.
His son was now a puppeteer.

He acted as a questionnaire.
He drove a yellow racing car,
and called himself a racketeer.
A racounteur who would reappear
and reassure, or reinsure.

He didn't require
a rocking chair
at the rouge et noir.

He was a saboteur
at the salad bar,
sitting in his sedan chair
staring at a shooting star.

He was quite the sightseer.
Another silver fir,
appeared in a silver star
as he watched from his sleeping car
next to the snowshoe hare
he saw a solar flare.

Each and every solar year
he sat and played solitaire
while eating his soup de jour.

He kept many a souvenir,
like his steel guitar.
He lined his car with steering gear,
he was quite the superstar.

He sat down in his swivel chair,
and ripped the stuffing out of his teddy bear.
He often toured in his touring car,
which resembled and old trolley car.

He was often unaware.
He was not much of a volunteer.
He suffered much wear and tear
while sitting in his windsor chair.

He thinks he's part wolly bear,
he smacks his wife with a wrecking ball.

He's an anchovy pear,
a binary star,
a black marketeer
on every calender year.

He holds a celestial sphere,
like a cervical smear.
He eats a cinnamon bear.
He's often a concessionaire.
A conventioneer or electioneer.
He thinks of all this from his electric chair.


Posted on 10/22/2012
Copyright © 2022 Johnny Crimson

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 10/23/12 at 01:42 PM

If you put these all together in a book you could say it was a rhyming dictionary for children but you'd have to leave out the explicit pieces or change them a little.

Posted by A. Paige White on 10/24/12 at 01:39 PM

ouch. really, though amusing.

Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 10/25/12 at 02:42 PM

wickedly intriguing, you have me fascinated, all the unexpected scenes and turns - like one word leads to the next to the next and havoc is a thrill

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