….It was already hard to catch it, but after they touched it, now we move slower than Stepin Fetchit; the ratchet times made me wretched, I couldn’t wedge it, so instead I pledged it, and became reckless; shot those who heckled, then I turned back into Jekyll, minus the freckles. Wish I had a sickle to cut down the fickle, cause they just tell jokes like Don Rickles; they give me the tickles. That fat man is Mister Wiggles, his belly shakes when he gets the giggles, he likes pink Sox and brown pickles, when he dances he just jiggles, prefers his change in all nickels. It all made me snicker while I ate my Snickers, jumped up and down like Tigger, into my Acc Vigor, pulled off like I was a sticker.
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Author:
EvenwheniLie (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 4th, 2023 16:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek, Bobby O.
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Comments4
Nice flow to this poem-enjoyable and dynamic-thanks for introducing a historical figure of the cinema, Stepin Fetchit.
Thanks again; I thought I’d make this one fun.
your wordplay and flow
as-ever
on point, a great poem
thank you! dear Poet
(betwixt fantastic and our dreams
exists a bridge to that never
we accumulate as our incandescent
ideal, as tomorrow's worth..
yet when that finale scene, flicks
to obsolete
we're left in our seats, waiting
for that next
avenue of inexhaustible, escape..)
Thanks L. B. Mek, a fun read was my intention
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