Two Flying Farts

It’s possible that you do not give a flying fart about the content here. But what about two? I think your saying there’s a chance, and I like those odds.

I don’t trust parrots There I said it, It felt good to get that out. They seem real cute Till they steal your loot Voicing their opinions all about. You may disagree And be very parrot-y But let me gently remind There has been not one story Of a parrots loyal glory Or getting their loved ones out of a bind So on your trips and journeys, Awing over the Macaws, Please keep that in mind.

I don’t think my reflection knows Where I goes, When I goes It waits It woes It stands It stows And when I return it’s happy to see The me that’s reflected Is that me that was me. Still it must be very hard To be a reflection To stand in direction To have specific perception And yet to give a perfect account Of the you in front of the mount To break the good news, and the bad Must be paneful to the mirrors you have.

Have you heard, of the Great! Dust Bunny Migration? This was back in '08. I was but a lad. And I was paid a nickle. For every dusty hide I had (by my dad). I hunted all over the house, My trusty foxtail by my side. And I became quite scary, To all manner of bunny-kind. I would peek around the corner, Under the stairs, and on the shelf. For those bunnies would scurry, Whenever I walked in, in a hurry. I even found some clung to myself. Eventually the house was clean, And my pockets were heavy with change. But inside I felt empty and cried. For the lost bunny souls I had claimed. Those dusty hoppers should be allowed to roam free! And so I emptied the trash bag I had, In my dads study. You should've seen! It was glorious! All the hops and dashes, Although there were many coughs, And I think some crashes. If you ask (you didn't) I'm satisfied, With the decision I made, To release all my dusty friends, Even though, upon closer lens, They may not exactly be bunnies in the modern sense, Or any sense actually. It was worth all the change in my pocket, To see my dads face when he lost it!

There are people that will rob, The very sense from out of your head. They sop your intellect out with biscuits, Made from disinformational bread. They will not be satisfied, To be your lord and leader, It is only when you are penitent, Eating directly from their feeder. Do not give your voice away, To those who freely dismiss it. Do not accept words as facts, If the words themselves don't sense it, To these kind you are a number, And there are many more to take your place, Many more to give their freedoms, To give away their head space. Use your voice against these bakers, These loafers using nonsensical yeast, Do not let their ideas rise up, In your thoughts and in your beliefs. For these ideas that take too much, While providing nothing in between, Will slowly burn each batch, these people hatch, No buttering-up nor gravying-over can redeem.

A raindrop named Su, Was falling through the sky. It didn't remember not being a raindrop. It didn't know it could not fly. Su thought about the clouds, It didn't know what they were, So Su called them whisps, Because (to Su) they were. And then Su saw something, Just peeking through the mist, Su became exited, Su thought “Something new exists!” But it kept growing, on and on it went. And Su got an uneasy feeling, That it and Su might hit. And it kept growing. And Su kept falling. And Su tried stalling. And Su tried balling. But the ground was calling.

A puddle named Su, Is laying lazily on the ground. It didn't remember being a raindrop, It has always been where it was found. And now Su stares up, up, at the sky. And now Su thinks, “Oh how pretty, I wish I could fly”.

I have a desk I sit at, It's strong and sturdy and clean. I work at it most of the day, But I'd really rather be fleeing. I want to run and ride a bike, Not sit and type and type and type. But no one will pay, for soaking up rays, So here at my desk, I sit typing away.

What hobbies do you have? People usually say? Do you ice skate? Or fish? Or stand on your head? No, I reply absentmindedly. I normally dog instead. At this point I have to explain, Because most people aren’t use, To dog on the brain. Do you train them? Or run them? Or take them to war? Oh no, I reply, I just pet dog on the floor. Or maybe the bed. Sometimes the sofa. If he’s good I will treat, As long as he doesn’t chew on my loafers. And when he’s all curled up As tight as a Frisbee We toss him around the back yard, with the kids see? This is where I get strange looks, And we politely part ways, To dog is not for everyone, And everyone are not for dog ways.

Help. My T. V. Watches me. It doesn’t see much drama, My wife and I don’t fight. And yet my T. V. Watches me Almost every single night. I turn it on to watch the soaps, I turn it on to watch the dopes, I turn it on to watch people climb ropes. And yet for all my shows, That dumb T.V. is watching me, But I don't think it knows.

Help! My T.V. is watching me. Now I'm more concerned. I left it on the stand, I don't think it can move, do you think it can? It's not where it was before, but now it's in the kitchen. With my cup of coffee, looking out at the pigeons.

HELP! MY T.V. IS BECOMING ME. NONE OF MY FAMILY WILL LISTEN, THEY ALL GATHER ROUND, LISTENING TO ITS MAGIC SOUNDS, HYPNOTIZED BY ITS GLITZEN. WHAT'S THAT? MY SON NOW CALLS IT DAD?! WHAT AM I TO DO! I MUST DESTROY THIS SQUARE CAD, TONIGHT, LATE I MIGHT, NO I WILL UNDO!

help. my t.v. became me, as i can see the family round, he shows them shows, as he acts and flows, and sounds off like a clown. and where am i? where do i fit? and what has become of me? i am now held prisoner here, inside of this t.v.

It's quite possible you will never, See behind your head. Even with the best of mirrors, And bounciest of beds. The greatest technologies, That Sysamoto Corp has to give, May never let you login, To the dark side of your noggin, To view the unknown area you live. To be sure others have tried, A survey team from Omaha, Who lost their marbles and cried. Still another “expert” from Denmark, Said he'd view the back of his head first, Did he? Sadly no, He ended up in a hearse. Another sage from India, stood up and said, “My friends, do not be silly, There is not a back to any ones head.” Lastly a small boy from Florida (Billy), Asked his mom one sunny day, “Mom I trust you, Is the back of my head grey?” The mom said “No, of course not son!” Realizing then, what she had just done. Shouting to all who then would hear, “If we would just trust one another, All of the back heads would appear!” And so it was, this strange tale. Trust is such a little thing, unless it is to fail. So keep trusting, And never let it die, Trust in the young and old, The lazy and the spry. There is nothing that will come to ill, By giving trust away, Nothing that matters to those who know, So give it a chance, ok?

I am never in full possession, Of the hive behind my mind. Perhaps it's busy making honey-thoughts, That drip into vats of unconscious wine. Maybe there's a future-telling part, That's busy writing on a scroll. He tells fantastical stories, Of where I'll eventually go. There are other parts of course, One's I'd really rather not say. These parts are not so nice, But they too want to play. I am never quite sure, What to say to these scary folk, The ones that simply do not fit, And then I remember “them” are me, And so I tell them to sit. There are vast arrays of space and time, Just waiting to be explored, Alas, I cannot survive, In just the hive, And mustn't ignore outdoors. And so traveler I tell you, Whilst trekking in the hive, Watch with whom you trust and talk, And take a buddy when you dive, Some places appear shallow, But are deeper than they look, Always bring your trusty towel, And if there's a wait, a book. And so this is where we must part, And go our separate ways. I've told you all about my hive, Yours now awaits....

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