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Seated behind the Electric Alabriss,
There's fans that cheer
While detractors hiss,
Loud enough that you might miss...
The opening of the gate.
Off the start you're a little late,
Which wouldn't be a problem
If the course was straight.
But you're stuck on a track
Shaped like a figure eight...
Which you'll need to go around.
Around and around on the dusty brown
Track in the coliseum,
Worn into the ground,
Knowing only first place
Will take the crown...
You dare not take a pause.
Right in front of you
A pile of dung falls.
Swerving around it sends you
Right into the walls,
And the Alabriss can't hear
Your panicked calls...
As a chariot slams your side.
You don't know why,
For you had pulled wide;
They couldn't have hit you --
Unless they'd tried!
The other competitors are cheats,
Without any pride...
Then you spot an Altadorian sun.
For an Alabriss that's invincible
The race is fun.
If you hadn't been delayed
Then you might have won.
But, what's this?
The race isn't even half done?
You spot a cloud and your chariot jumps.
Your Alabriss is flying
Right over those chumps;
You hear the beating of wings
Instead of hooves that clump.
You should've won the race,
But the judges are stumped...
And around the track you go!
My Trusty Shopkeeper
I love my shopkeeper,
He works hard, day and night...
Long hours, no pay,
Never puts up a fight.
He takes care of the items
And the Neopoints in the till,
He does that and more,
And never sends a bill.
He's the best of the best,
Never had a shopkeeper that was better,
He will stay there all day,
Wearing his nice purple sweater.
He stocks all the items
And prices them well,
He does that for me
So that they will sell.
He works all day long,
And all throughout the night,
Doesn't want me to help,
Which is quite all right.
He watches out for thieves
That are after my Neopoints,
The Pant Devil won't get any,
Because my shopkeeper never disappoints.
All in all he's the best,
I'll never find another,
He's more than my shopkeeper,
He seems like a brother.
You probably visit her every day,
Yet, asked for her name, what would you say?
She is so happy for company
She gives out a prize,
You grab it and run, and she lowers her eyes.
She wishes that every once in a while,
Someone who passes would return her smile.
Her eyes are so lovely, a rare shade of blue,
They sparkle with joy every time she sees you.
Her gifts are quite modest, as NPs are tight,
She works so hard on them,
'Til late in the night.
Do you then just toss them away,
Her gifts from the heart
She has given that day?
If you would take the time to just socialize,
You would see she is wonderfully wise!
The stories she hoped to share on this day,
Go back to her memory,
As you rush on your way.
So, as you grab hold
Of your prize the next day,
Take time to thank her
For going out of her way.
Just one more thing, please don't be rude,
Look into those eyes,
And say, "Good day, Weltrude."
Closed Battledome Blues
"Would you like a new book today?"
I ask my 'pet with worry.
She heaves a sigh. "No, it's okay.
To read I'm in no hurry."
"How about an ice cream sundae?"
She gives a shake of her head.
"No thanks. I had one on Monday."
I eye her sad face with dread.
"Then tell me what's making you blue,"
I plead. "I want to help out."
She says, "There's nothing you can do,
At least I very much doubt.
I miss the Battledome, you see.
I miss my sword in my paw.
A battle would fill me with glee,
But as it is, life's a bit blah."
Her ears droop and her shoulders slump.
Her shelved weapons gather dust.
Into the ring she'd gladly jump,
But patiently wait she must.
Battledome, when will you return?
Soon? I truly do hope so.
'Pets mope and grumble, and they yearn
To take down new and old foes.
When cobwebs cover
The Haunted woods branches,
And ghouls do come out to slither about,
To the Haunted Faire each Neopet prances
As a mystic Cybunny does come out.
With glee, each Poogle does bleat,
And every Kougra's pelt does bristle,
For, in the Haunted Faire, her cart does seat
As the haunted fog curls like creeping thistle.
"Are you ready for a delightful treat?"
Each Neopet holds their breath with glee.
"For, this year,
My riddles are tough!" she speaks,
As those masks hang from her cart,
Tantalizing and free.
Each one was up for her challenge, of course,
Their eyes so wild, so true...
She gave a glance over with no remorse,
And bellowed, "Which mask today,
The red or perhaps the blue?"
Total Poetry Pages : 1962
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