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Ye Olde Poeme

Always on always and ever with few,
What brightly gives inward may never be new.
Though quickly a greener and once or twice funny,
This ever flits over and under what's sunny.
What times or takes these awful ends later
Is what is done and often hates the hater.
If this which is that which has crumbled and died,
While few if any able, and most of them cried,
Then never sought the sunburst, wholesome and hale,
Traversed all the offal, shriveled and pale.
Endingly, finally reached through with dead hands
Came upon unknowingly those far away lands.
Whichever shall seek, the few may find sky;
Some of the infinite end -- to live and/or die.

  Silly, Silly, Silly, Silly
  Time to go and pick on Willy.
  Wacky, Wacky, Wacky, Wacky
  This is getting kinda tacky.
  Goofy, Goofy, Goofy, Goofy
  Clouds and pillows are nice and poofy.
  Fun, Fun, Fun, Fun
  5 isn't the only one.
  Oh my, Oh my, Oh my, Oh my
  How I wish that I could fly.
  Flarket, Flarket, Flarket, Flarket
  A paper with a pencil, I could mark it.
  Doo doo, Doo doo, Doo doo, Doo doo
  I think this poem is now through.

311

311's a magic number, and so I think is 5.
5 makes stuff go, and one more makes a hive.
A head is a thing on you under a hat.
It quite often hurts when hit with a bat.
Cats are the siamese non-speaking letter-takers.
Separating the original jokes from the fakers.
Cool blue pen is the thing I use when I'm writing.
I'm glad I can read. Can't see without lighting.
Sometimes I want to scream, let it all out.
More fun to be mystic, too obvious shout.
If you have an idea, it's as good as my own.
Hand it to others, the stitches are sewn.
Up above and behind and under and through
Are words with the feeling. I'm me and I'm you.
And all the cows, they go moo.

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