Ascetic

My brother got mad at my dad,
And decided to become an ascetic--
If you ask me, it was rather sad,
Because his efforts were pathetic.
He locked himself up in his room,
And said he was a hermit.
He put on the fiercest face of gloom,
And sacrificed his driving permit
To some gargoyle miniature figurine,
But the fire was synthetic.
The bright side is that he wasn't seen
While he was so frenetic.
And all he ate was lima beans,
Until stopped by the family medic.
Sooner or later he had to stop though,
And stop it did...when Dad made tacos.

Platitude

Roses are red, violets are blue.
This poem has a lot of platitude.
And it's also very short. Wahoo!
And they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Obsequious

A group of servants who were quite obseqious,
Asked me once, "Why don't you free us?"
All I could say is, "You do what you're told.
Never once have you broken the mold.
When your master says go, you go right away,
You never complain and you don't delay.
If you wish to be free, you ought to make the point clear."
They said they couldn't, because of fear.
I said, "If the fear is to much to bear,
It's simply because the desire's not there."

If freedom is truly worth fighting for,
Perhaps we ought to act like we value it more.

Bedizen

Miss Bedizen's in bed again,
Her fatigue is quite ferocious.
The dress she wore from nine to ten
Was something quite atrocious.
It was lime green--thirty pounds, she said--
All trimmed with purple leather.
Its gobs of lace were cherry red,
And lined with hot pink turkey feathers.
Hope-blue diamonds pulled the collar
Down right past her shoulders.
And everyone wanted to holler,
"Cover up your boulder holders!"
Miss Bedizen didn't notice them
Until she wobbled down the stairs.
But she was so exhausted then,
That she had few other cares
Than to make it down to breakfast
In more than just her underwears.

So Miss Bedizen walked as fast
As her dress would then allow,
Looking more ridiculous
Than a green bedazzled cow.
When we saw her, we all laughed
Until she tripped on our poor dog, Rover.
That demonic dress tore right in half,
And knocked a candle over.
Miss Bedizen's dress was all a mess,
Scorched and burnt and torn.
But she's much too tired now to stress,
The fabric now to mourn.

But if you think that's something,
Just wait until tomorrow morning.
I'm sure it will be some awful thing
That Miss Bedizen is adorning.

Pithy

Pithy is a pretty word,
Its meaning is concise.
If I keep this poem nice and pithy,
You just might read it twice.

Anathema (in Wicked)

Galinda dislikes Elphaba,
If by "dislike" you mean "loathes"--
She finds her to be an anathema,
From her voice down to her clothes.
Of course, by the end of the roommate drama,
The girls like each other quite a lot.
But without the initial perceived anathema,
There wouldn't be much of a plot.

Accretion

There was a poet, a Great Venetian,
Who was greatly afflicted with the gift of accretion.
His poems were small for a minute or two,
But by the hour one poem grew and grew,
Until it filled up a page, then filled up a book,
Then filled up his house, his street, and every last nook
In the city--then Italy, all of Europe and France,
The poem even got in King George's underpants.
But on and on went the poet, forming brand new accretions
To his poetry--failing to make much needed deletions--
Until his poem spilled into the ocean and swam through the seas,
Through Egypt to the shores of Tripoli,
Through Greenalnd and Iceland and to each Pole it fled,
To a place where every white bear and penguin could have read,
Accreting until it climbed over China's great wall,
And spreading until it reached Niagra's great falls.
People were swimming in rhymes all over the earth,
And the poem started causing much more trouble than mirth,
Because after all over the world it had ran,
It was hard to tell just where it had began
Or who was to blame for such endless accretion--
For everyone was anxious to see their completion.