.

Pope’s Lock

.

For a small lock of hair

Not brilliant, not shiny,

Not precious, but rusty,

Lost to the lady fair

.

They fought so hard and true

Batteling fro and to

Fists banging, swords clashing,

Cries and shouts resounding

.

The furniture was trashed

Walked upon, thrown around,

Blood was shed, flesh wounded

.

As, all around, fighted,

All for honor of fair

A lady’s lock of hair.

Revel in my talent.

*

This is just a poem made out of random words,

It has not a meaning nor any real purpose,

But notice how it works despite being senseless,

‘Tis the most majestic of all existing turds.

.

Without any real thought and so lacking in depth,

Without any grammar or respect for language,

Oh, only he who writes, decides what he doeth,

And only he can choose what words go on his page.

.

Writing some poetry isn’t complicated,

Just find a good rhythm and then make the words rhyme,

Whatever the order, it will work out. Sometime.

.

You will get there whether or not you’re talented,

Just think of a colour, add a deep emotion,

And all that’s left to do is a tree to mention.

Oh but do try to make it readable though.

And yeah, I did just write that…

They walk the walk and talk the talk

Walking the plains of desert lands

Roaming the dark and grey expanse

They talk the talk and walk the walk

.

Ever wandering in circles

Again and again, round and round

Oh, following an endless trail

Those three strange men in the desert.

.

Footsteps in sand, shadows in dust

They dream greatness but one day must,

For time away, old age come, rust.

.

Their journey is long, dangerous

But time is rare, even precious

And they cannot stray from their course.