Friday, January 26, 2018

Fertile Soil

My Gentle Readers, I am land capable of producing crops in abundance.  That is the meaning of fertile.  And when someone comes along and plants something in me, I write.  I write and I write and I write write write.  I write that I'm right, and put down here put downs against the short and the tall, the fat and the small, in fact for all, for that's what I scrawl.

This row, pronounced row as in boat and not row as in sow, sprouts from recent seeds that have been sown about the overblown rhetoric of grognards that groan that the game has not grown in tone since its becoming known.  "This thing, I say, is, as I say, impossible to stay, because I say, so why do you flay the horse that dead lays, while enterprise pays, so pray, why do you make hay of this way that we play, it's all so cliche, we'll play it our way whatever you say, you'll make no headway with this blogging mainstay." 

And if so that I can't with this descant that I'll grant, for it's a scant rant that could enchant a houseplant, I'll yet slant this decant with a sharp shan't shan't shan't.  I'll write just in spite of the sprite that's too tight for this month's cockfight, and put down in words the slurs for the nerds, absurd as they're blurred by the sounds of my words.  I'll let the queue review the menu of the brew that I spew, however construed is the zoo that ensues, though a new world should be pooh pooh poohed.

For the right that is right is a written screed pittin' a point that's befittin' when the scene's gone to quittin', that the game's not just for sittin' in a dumb corner knittin'.  When the game's made for shills, we won't take to the hills, we'll fight for our thrills and write with our quills that the game's about skills, not anthills with frills, distilled to the gills and choked out of gristmills.

So I'll write and I'll write, I'll write write write write, 'till the trite is put flight.  In truth it's delight, to smite with eyes bright the wights of this blight.

But now though excited, and feeling beknighted, I'll leave off on this height and wish readers goodnight.  Beknownst it's alright, for our way is alight; and when again I'll recite you'll all get an invite.


  1. I cannot believe it has taken five years for someone to comment on this magnificent piece of poetry. I am stirred by these words!

  2. It's been explained and made plain that the reader refrains from telling their gains. It's also been said, that "my face would turn red," if they said it's well-bred, for they'd rather be dead than tell how well it's been said; it's over their head.

    So chirp go the crickets; I spin open the spigot and don't let it prohibit the words I exhibit, though I lie in the thickets and wait for a visit.


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