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The Buzz Avenger
High above the sleeping city,
Filled with dreamers unaware,
Is he who watches while they slumber --
The Buzz Avenger is in the air.
Floating on the slightest breezes,
Wings stilled of their telltale hum,
Eyes acute to signs of menace,
Ears scanning for shouting from
Citizens in mortal danger,
Panicked pleas for liberation,
From thugs who also prowl the night
(Though theirs be a darker motivation).
Harkening dire cries for help,
The Buzz Avenger narrows in
On the location, and to the wicked,
His swift arrival is harrowing.
For there outlined against the moon,
A brawny Blue Buzz clad in brown and black,
His claws are spread through grasping gauntlets,
Eyes glowing red through cloaking mask.
The costume of a superhero?
Or a lawless vigilante?
It matters not to his enemies,
For he is the last thing they will ever see.
And so nightly does he wander,
Soaring high above everyone,
Rooting out all injustice,
Making his world a better one.
Who's That on the Stairs?
Something thunders in the night,
It makes the floor just shake!
Stirred me in my Neohome,
And wrenched me wide awake.
With fear in mind I peeked a glance,
Then slowly gazed around.
A massive footfall sounded then,
It shook and rocked the ground!
Something seemed to be downstairs,
(It sounded rather large!)
I grabbed a torch and scuttled forth,
A deep breath, step, now charge!
I burst into the hallway quick,
But much to my surprise,
I saw footprints, yet not a soul,
Could not believe my eyes.
A footstep sounded right behind,
It shook me to the core.
A lumbering, a tail scrape,
So heavy on the floor.
"Who is there?" I yelled in fear,
Then worked out with relief.
The culprit was my Neopet,
Invisible, my Skeith!
To the Snowager
It peers out from the darkness
Into the budding morning,
Casting shadows long and black
Even as the day is dawning.
Always hidden from the light,
Lurking in its shrouded lair,
Looking out with some deep yearning
With eyes reflecting cold despair.
Behold, the Snowager -- fearsome beast?
Or simply misunderstood?
Yet Neopians have taken the right
To define evil from good.
"The Snowager's clearly bad news,"
They declared some years ago.
"It attacks our innocent wanderers
With blasts of ice and snow!"
And from that moment on, they say,
The Snowager was confined
To that icy cave of his,
Ever lonely, left behind.
The Day of Giving comes and goes,
Yet who would think to give
The scary, bad ol' Snowager
A merry Christmas gift?
All alone on snowy nights,
The Snowager curls around
His very own pile of gifts --
Odd objects that he's found.
And sometimes on these snowy nights
A visitor comes 'round
To nick a piece of treasure
From the Snowager's gift mound.
So who could blame this poor beast
For warding thieves away
With frosty breath and icy blast
To keep his great hoard safe?
But who would care about this monster,
Misunderstood and lone?
The silent figure coils right up
To spend holiday night alone.
So how about we lend some cheer
On this joyous day so major?
Let us wish a Day of Giving
To the one and only
M*YNCI in Concert
A colourful sign at the Concert Hall reads:
"On the 18th's a show you should all come to see!
Come buy your ticket, this show will be grand;
It's M*YNCI performing, the world-famous band!"
Fans start to panic, they all storm the booth,
Fighting for tickets, hoof, nail, and tooth.
Some leave ecstatic, their ticket in hand,
Ready to go watch their favourite band.
"M*YNCI" is printed on all their fans' shirts;
They slather on makeup, slip on their skirts.
After handing in tickets, they join the thick crowd,
Ready to witness the best band around.
The lights start up slowly: dim, neutral, blare!
The stage comes in focus as rainbow lights glare,
Then from five trap doors, five figures stand tall:
M*YNCI, the greatest boy band of them all!
They each grab a mic, they sing and they dance,
Their moves hypnotise, their lyrics entrance.
When the final note ends, the audience cheers;
They know they'll remember this concert for years!
Wherein Strangers Meet in a Tavern One Cold Winter's Night
It was a chill winter's night, same old, same old.
A tavern sat with creaking sign and wind blew cold.
Inside was clouded with smoke, smelled of mould.
Jugs set on tables, frozen hands struggled to hold.
Down the path came stranger in a cloak --
Not so strange, among common folk.
He ducked under a creaking sign, made of oak,
Long blue ears trailed on it, his nose smelled smoke;
But no stranger can be picky if they are flat broke.
He sat by a table facing the door,
His boots encrusted with filth from the floor.
But filth and smoke and crowds he'd ignore,
Because this was a place exempt from the law.
A scar marked his chin; dark hair fell on his face.
He kept his hood up, not trusting this place.
A thief can fall foul and must keep up his pace
So as to not end up dead in disgrace.
The door opened once more; a cold wind blew.
The stranger looked up, as cloaked strangers do.
Cloaked strangers aren't many; this thing he knew.
So this newcomer, cloaked and shivering -- who?
Newcomer spotted his table and headed there,
Thinking, perhaps, of cleaner air.
His hood slipped, showing head devoid of hair,
But with antennae. He took a chair.
The Gelert was startled, but it didn't show.
Inclined his head the smallest it could go.
The Grundo looked uncomfortable, and rightly so;
This was a cloaked stranger that he didn't know.
A scar marked his brow, in the shape of an 'X'.
His body halved purple and orange -- a hex?
He carried a raygun, as though meant to perplex --
His gun, gloves, and clothes, all strange tech.
Gelert Thief clenched his hand, wrapped in its glove.
He didn't trust creatures that came from above.
He didn't trust any, when push came to shove,
Thieves do not know the meaning of love.
The Traitor looked awkward, as well he might be.
Someone nearby fell victim to a flea.
Distraction was welcome, as Thief wanted to flee.
He got to his feet, stumbling over debris.
Then out the door, into the cold,
Same old, same old.
The Grundo stayed inside without being told --
Though he suspected that here was a tale to be told.
Above the door creaked an old wooden sign
And with a start, the Grundo crossed the line.
He got to his feet, not particularly malign,
And hurried to follow. Sometimes fates intertwine.
Total Poetry Pages : 2008
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