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Contorted, cowering, mind unsure,
Nothing pretty, nothing pure,
Master's word and Master's hand,
Master's bidding, his command.
In the forest, place to place,
This bitter maze, this sad displace,
Through the darkness, through the night,
I navigate this endless blight.
Twists and turns, dangers beware,
I search the ground with utmost care,
For Master's praise I try to find
Those items he once left behind.
You Can Keep Your Borovan
I go to Terror Mountain
For I love to ski and skate,
But there is one pleasure of the slopes
Of which I will not partake.
Why do those caring citizens
Think that I should be warmed up
By pouring foul Borovan
Into my waiting cup?
Now, even I must admit
That the brew is piping hot,
But force it past my curling lips?
I think I'd rather not.
I suppose that if I were quite chilled,
I'd hold the cup within my hands,
But mere moments in the fetid steam
Is more than my nose can stand.
And do not think that you can mask
Its malodour with added flavours.
No cranberry, apple, orange, or mint
Could cause my disgust to waver.
Yes, you can keep your Borovan
In your cakes and crepes as well.
They might indeed be delicious,
But I just can't get past the smell.
I should like to avoid Borovan
And the places where it's sold,
Though one day I just might try a cup
If my nose is stuffy from a cold.
The Island Mystic
Rhythmic beat of tribal drum
Resounds off island shore,
In tempo with your pounding heart,
Its call you can't ignore.
Midnight flames that touch the sky
Illuminate his face,
The Island Mystic waits for you,
With fate in his embrace.
A primal soul with ancient eyes
That see all yet untold,
Reveals to those who seek him
How their futures shall unfold.
His answers come in cryptic words
To those who dare to ask,
But willing must you be to
Face the fears beneath your mask.
For fortunes told by Mystic wise
Are not for weak of heart.
They hold not what you want to hear,
But truth, do they impart.
If you can read between the lines,
And gem of wisdom find,
Then you may choose to change your life,
And leave your fate behind.
The Elephante Gypsy
The Elephante gypsy waves Gilly goodbye,
He finally closes his book.
He flutters his wings, and he heaves a great sigh
And gives Gilly a lingering look.
His story is told now, his function is done,
And back to the shadows he slinks.
He's told Gilly all, except that she's the one
To bring these events to the brink.
The Elephante knows that she will lift the curse,
He knows she'll meet Sophie and Bruno.
He feels in his bones she'll encounter far worse
Than either he, I, or you know.
And yet he can't tell her; a mere tool of fate,
It's his job to just set the scene.
He only can warn her of what will await,
Not explain to her what it all means.
So he puts up the tome and returns to his home.
If Gilly knew all that he knows!
He knows how fate works; he's just one of its quirks,
And now begins the Tale of Woe.
Cursed Without a Talent
I am cursed to be without a cool talent,
I tried the Beauty Contest and the Art Gallery.
My art seemed to be blobs, all twisted and bent,
Drawing is just not my thing, can you see?
Neohome, Gallery, Lookup, or Site Spotlight,
Turns out I'm not too great at decorating either.
I tried, I tried, with all my might,
But I succeed in none, either.
I then tried the Pet and Petpet Spotlights,
But I simply cannot write a story,
So why am I writing a poem tonight?
This is not the same, and here may find some glory.
And so now I try the Poetry Gallery to see
If I can find that talent
That has been invisible to me.
When I click the button this will be sent,
And glorious I will be.
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