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Neopian Poetry - Dedicated to the 1,000th page of Neopian Poems!
From intricate sonnets to haikus,
To verses that don't rhyme,
To lofty epics from the past
That re-live ancient times.
From tales that tell of faeries,
To merry, joyful songs,
To morals written from the heart
That outline rights and wrongs.
From verses that are full of woe,
And tell us things of Sloth,
To epic lines of battling times
Packed full of war and wrath.
A poem can speak of happiness,
Of times that make us sad,
Of fantastic celebrations
That make our hearts feel glad.
Neopian poems are special,
They're always one of a kind,
Full of magic that can brighten
Any Neopet's mind.
So why not celebrate with us?
And revel in every letter
Of the Neopian Poetry through the years,
Whatever could be better?
Sloth's Gracious Gift
Beware of evil bearing gifts,
Is how the saying goes.
What dwells within the bottle dark
Are vile things no one knows.
Beware the hand of Sloth, outstretched,
That smile doth deceive.
Nothing sweet comes from his hand,
No good shall you receive.
A gracious gift from overlord?
Who would have thought it true?
It's hard to keep expression straight,
As vial's held to you.
Towering, the fiend does grin,
A whisper in your ear.
"It's just a gift, from me to you,
What have you left to fear?"
No light doth break the bottle's glare,
And something shifts inside.
Sloth just gives a jaunty wave,
And quickly off, does stride.
You gaze at potion in your grasp,
It's Sloth's most gracious gift.
You part your lips to yell a thanks,
He's gone, and rather swift.
What lies within this veiled gift,
A present from a beast?
Something wicked, something bleak,
Or something bad, at least.
The brew within that vial dark
Won't bring you joy nor bliss.
Sloth's gracious gift is yours to take,
No good can come from this.
Glubgar's Volcano Run
Deep within the volcano's core,
A silly Scorchio chooses to soar.
He must be careful; he must not touch,
Or he will get a nasty burn as such.
He flies over the molten flame,
Teasingly, as though it's a game.
What he does not see; he's too far in,
The wall crusts are burning his skin.
He has to get out, or else he'll die,
All he has to do is give it a try.
But this vain Scorchio wants that gem,
He's thinking of all the Neopoints he'll spend.
Unless, of course, he doesn't make it out,
In his greedy mind, there isn't a doubt,
But he just can seem to go any more,
His wings feel like they'll drop to the floor!
His breath is wheezed; he needs air.
Now that Scorchio is feeling scared.
Ah-ha! There's that gem he was looking for!
But wait... Oh no! Here comes the floor!
As that Scorchio slowly drifts down,
The rocks making a cracking sound,
Then there's an awful hissing shriek,
Oops, I think Glubgar missed his peak.
Holding his ray gun, poised and ready,
To strike when you least expect it.
Watch out for that baby Bruce,
And his mischievous nature.
You might be on your way to the shops,
Or visiting the bank.
You might just be at home,
When that baby Bruce might attack.
He's small, cute-looking
But don't be fooled.
Boochi they call him,
He might be after you next.
Some say he is a blessing,
Turning their pets into babies.
"Oh, how cute!" they say.
"I just love Boochi!"
Just spare a thought,
For that Darigan Pteri.
Whose owner loved him so
When Boochi used his ray gun.
However, do not despair --
Sometimes he misses.
Look over your shoulder once or twice
For the baby Bruce that roams Neopia.
Chomby and the Fungus Balls Jacket
It lies, in a corner, crumpled.
Fraying into tangled Spyder-thread.
One arm is flung out, entreating,
A desperate gesture.
Such things cannot remember the times gone by.
Some part of it now remembers,
Some of its fabric knows what it used to be
And hopes for its old glory.
Some part remembers.
A forest of waving hands, flashing lights,
Screaming fangs, screaming band,
Some part remembers.
The sheer atmosphere, the noise, the spirit,
And then it's over. A prize,
Grabbed by delighted hands
From the rack of similar prizes. Concert swag.
Some part remembers.
Worn, in triumph, in glee,
All the time, ceaseless,
Gathering stains. Proud badges of worth.
Some part remembers.
Green and purple aren't in season?
Chomby and the Fungus Balls is SO last year.
Left, in a closet, and forgotten.
Some part remembers,
Even as dust gathers and fabric ages,
Even as colours fade.
Some part remembers, and smiles.
Total Poetry Pages : 1865
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