Persimmon
has no reason or rhyme
well, not at this time
it’s just a word
I wanted to use
I’ve no excuse
what’s real has blurred
the word has slurred
to pershmn
Persimmon, puce and poppycock
sit like shags on a wobbly rock
each with a pudding in a cotton sock
and a key to the bishop’s car
Make sense of this
you worthless piece
of over-opiated verse
I know the rules
I have the tools
you have your alligator purse
and rhyming dick
shunary, sick
ophantic to the dead
and rotting gods
of odds and sods
where none have trod
for fear of losing
half an empty head
You wander through
and wonder who
gave me the right
to write of right
and rhyme with right
not twice, but thrice
then not at all
I have a few
new words for you
anachronistic
quite simplistic
trivial and slightly cystic
such a sad and sorry state
when torrents of both love and hate
are trickled into metaphors
much used by Shakespeare and the Doors
who burned and raged in equal parts
though Shakespeare smoked a little less
and had less fun – but I digress
Light up
lighten up
sip your sins
from Satan’s cup
seven sins are counted
seven horses mounted
minus the three
that wait near the tree
of knowledge forgotten
the tree that is laden
with persimmon
