write your own poem that emulates schoolyard songs –
something to snap, clap, and jump around to.

Something in today’s prompt stirred primordial regions of my 5th grade soul. We really did recite these things when no teachers were around, I swear it’s true. This dredged up things better left forgotten…. but I did not compose these O.K? They were floating around schoolyards in the 1970’s. I am merely repeating them years later.

Miss Lucy had a steamboat
The steamboat had a bell;
Miss Lucy went to heaven
but the steamboat went to
Hello operator,
Give me number nine
And if you disconnect me
I’ll kick your fat
Behind the ‘frigerator
There was a piece of glass…
Miss Lucy sat upon it
And it cut her little
Ask me no more questions,
I’ll tell you no more lies.
The boys are in the girls’ room
Zipping up their
Flies can be a nuisance
Flies can be a pest
This rhyme is best forgotten
But the next one is the best!

      ( ♩♪♫ cue up banjo music ♩♬)

I’ll tell you of the story of a man named Jed;
Grabbed Ellie-May and he threw her on the bed.
Down went the zipper, out came a worm
And out of the worm come a bubblin’ sperm…

(Sperm that is: white gold… 42nd street tea)

She kicked and she farted and she fell on the floor;
The gas from her ass blew the hinges off the door.
The moon shone bright on the nipple of her tit
As she carved her name in prairie shit…

(Sung by the whore-house quartet—
Do you have a boner? Not yet—
Do you want one?  YOU BET!)

Battle Hymn of the 70’s Playground

Glory glory hallelujah—
Teacher hit me with a rulah;
Met her in the attic with a semi-automatic
and the teacher aint teaching no more.

There is more where this came from,
but as a sanctified Christian I must refrain from further infantile carnality and filth.

P.S.   if you want better poetry than this, go look at my previous NaPoWriMo attempts…

I am dragging very low this year.

(idea for a poem)

Sociopaths have run us down.
While normies watched their silly game.
Lies and war-crimes rule the night;
We search for someone new to blame.
Let Jews and Persians fight their war—
The people languish, keeping score.

Taking in water on high seas
The nation’s going down; bad-news.
We roll amidst the mounting waves
Aware that what was gained, we lose.
Now treading water, in the swell
Our pleasure cruise has gone to hell.

I am finding it so difficult to participate in Ntl. Poetry Month this year. Not sure why. 
My muse is blowing me off. Sigh…

He claimed we descend from apes, silly simian similitude—but does it hold water?
If I could, I would hold Darwin’s head under that water . . . until he sees GOD.

And now, here’s our prompt for the day — totally optional, as usual.
The Roman poet Catullus wrote a famous two-line poem:

Odi et amo: quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Here’s an English translation.

                I hate and I love. Why do I do this, you ask?
I don’t know, but I feel it happening and am tortured.

I thought about this poem the other day when I read a social media post collecting sentences from Charles Darwin’s letters, including:

                “Oh my God how do I hate species & varieties.”

                “I am very tired, very stomachy & hate nearly the whole world.”

                “I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything.”

                “I hate myself, I hate clover, and I hate bees.”

                “I am languid & bedeviled & hate writing & hate everybody.”

I must confess, the idea of being so grumpy that you have come to hate clover and bees is highly amusing to me. Today, your challenge is to take a page from Catullus and Darwin, and write a poem in which you talk about disliking something 

PROMPT #4

craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season.
Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.

She stirs in her cell, unaware she’s free

The keyboards start to click in joyous dread;

For you, O useless reader, hold the key

To rouse this sleeping prisoner from her bed.

Accustomed to her dull imprisoned state

Unused to warmth, she babbles in her cage

She fears, at first, the freedom to create;

Awakening, our muse begins to rage

Across the warming threshold into light,

She strides as verses blossom on the page

To chastise and put winter’s ghosts to flight.

The thawing wind! She shakes her golden hair

And lyric pollination seeds the air . . .