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And the Winner Is...
I don't like the Neopies,
And I don't care who wins 'em,
And I don't like the categories --
Mostly because I'm never in 'em.
That Elephante who hosts the show
Is attired in fine threads,
But are we not supposed to know
That's a cheap wig upon his head?
And sure, I do go every day
To vote and collect my presents.
I guess it's cool we have our say
About all the new content.
And yes, even if I don't care,
I daily view the winners.
It's interesting to go there,
And see where my favourites finish.
Perhaps you'll say (and you might be right)
That it is merely jealousy
That drives my visceral dislike
Of the much-loved Neopies.
Oh, winged and gilded faerie form!
Most coveted of trophies!
If you were mine I would transform
Into the champion of the Neopies!
The Secret Laboratory
Another day, another colour,
Another day, another shape.
A crazed Scorchio points his finger,
His hair on end, his lab coat torn.
A new experiment?
The temptation of power...
She calmly approaches,
"I want to change!
I want to be different!"
In the pursuit of something new,
She steps into a blinding ray of light.
Only one slight tear of fear,
She looks in the mirror.
No longer a skunk Shoyru,
With wings to fly to the sky.
Now a green Kougra,
With paws to run across the land.
A smile lights up her face.
This will do...
The Markets of Qasala
Golden grains, the dusty street,
Small clouds do rise from shifting feet.
To the north the sun doth rise,
Golden sphere in cloudless skies.
Its rays do merge in molten blur,
Below the market starts to stir.
It comes to life, a vibrant place,
A vision nothing could replace.
A multitude of vibrant stands,
Merry vendors, stock in hands.
A fountain stands for cool release,
Creates a trickling centerpiece.
Calls do echo forth and back,
Promoting scrolls, a spell, a snack.
The shoppers wander, robbed of cares,
Content to browse the endless wares.
(Beware though, friend, of creatures sly,
The Desert Scarabs work nearby!)
Qasalan Delights smells so sweet,
Its flavours drift toward the street.
It doth provide exotic taste,
Bound to add an inch to waist!
Nearby the Desert Arms stands tall,
"Weapons here!" doth vendor call.
Scrolls filled with the wisest things,
Sought by peasants, farmers, kings.
Few will deny those scrolls contain,
A magic all wish to attain.
So wander, friend, through stores of old,
What treasures might this market hold?
The Dance of the Buzz
Light as a feather, gentle as a breeze,
Gliding, twirling, twisting, and diving.
Freedom in every move and flourish,
The Buzz soars as if a wisp of cloud.
The sun gleams from its vivid scales
As the hypnotising dance spins on.
Entwined in an intricate aerial samba,
Gossamer wings beating out the rhythm.
With the setting of the glowing sun
The beat slows to a peaceful drone.
Spiralling downward to a quiet rest,
Its glory hidden for another day.
Who'll Win That Trophy?
Who will win that trophy today?
Is it for the best game we play?
Who'll get that trophy, shiny with pride?
It be us who will decide.
Who'll get that trophy, clean and gold?
Is it that plot that slowly unfolds?
The gleaming faerie waits for a win,
And so does another shiny, gold twin.
Who's gonna win that award today?
Is it some clothes that were released in May?
No, it's those silly slippers that won.
Oh well, let's wait for the next one.
Who's going to win that award, and for what?
Is it going to be that homemade hut?
Maybe it'll be a tie: no one.
The excitement of the Neopies has just begun...
Total Poetry Pages : 1827
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