Visions of Absurdum - The King and the Rutabaga

Goodly King Habius peered from his throne, 650Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPuMR8MbXgu

Goodly King Habius peered from his throne,

Scanning room-wise, he felt low alone,

And cried to the upper crust ceiling,

Spewing laments in low throttle tones:

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"Where's my court of curtly crones?

The lepers and leapers and other feckless drones.

They are usually here,

With mirthy tidings and fallow good wishes,

Serving bad recipes on chipped, dirty dishes.

Their lips do quiver

And their mouths fill with spittle

They curse and they fiddle,

They carve, doodle, and whittle.

They speak with fake lisps and dawdle and sway,

Full of compliance, they howl, spray, and bay.

Usually, they are assembled in undulating lines,

So callous, so craven, so praising, so blind.

They stammer and stutter,

They bow and they shiver,

They bloviate and placate,

They lurch and they whisper,

They pause and they postulate,

They harangue and they dither."

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In the westerly nook of Castle Argyll,

The nosey Chancellor gathers a milk smile,

And perchance, pursues a bottomless vial

Of peas porridge hot molten exiles:

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"In the idle woods of Eiderdown,

A pauper praised his ponce and purse,

And braised the simpleton's miserly frown,

And traded each verse for a curse."

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The King heard the dalliance alliance,

Abrupt, did he foreplay his hand,

Accursed and averse to the hangman's obtuse,

He parlayed the parlance, meekishly bland:

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"In ol' Brandyvale vestibule,

A temperamental tempest did prowl,

As the north wind's heady lament

Cemented the plowman's awl and scowl,

Upon a signpost, with much merriment,

To oblong onlookers

With written regards they spent unsent.

Lone Isabelle, that lass unfettered,

She roams the north country airs,

In search of a prince unpampered, unlettered,

In hopes of sharing the season's last pear,

Trading every sneer for a care."

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While the King of Dwaddle, that copious cretin,

Lost in dire subsequent duels.

He prays for festivities and other hostilities,

Pouting and spouting, so cruel.

Amber marlin, never vexed with a farthing,

Roaming the woods of East Malodor,

Satiny scarlets, passionately starlit,

Vanquished by the lyre's final chord.

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The King and his rutabaga,

Tactile alpha, docile beta

Emits a rattle-bone screed

And dampers the hampers

Of volatile scampers and weak-kneed campers,

Along the banks of Chim-chim-cha-ree.

The dreams of scuttlebutts,

Attuned to the turner's ruts

and bowery rods of unknown cuffs and tufts,

Shambling the languid palfrey.

The King's allotment quotes

In pails and in boats,

From nestling the famished whispering turn-keys.

Of nights in soft batten, bathed in curves of satin,

Withered as the dais pot-pourri.

The Prince Pom-Pom the florist,

Dabbled with Paris and Horace,

Fairest of fairest, three times around the welt,

And labored in the garish,

and thimbled the nightmarish,

And crippled the crumpet's boorish Iscariot:

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"Alas, alack, aloof and audacious,

Kumquat will and kumquat may

This radish of relish of hoarders and bores,

This pedigree of similes assumes my troubadour,

Who sings of what-nots, despots, and vacated slip-knots,

Of bangles, baubles, bubbles and umbilical chords."

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There is nothing there and there is nothing more.

There is nothing there and there is nothing more

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