General Poetry posted July 27, 2017 Chapters:  ...35 36 -37- 38... 

This work has reached the exceptional level
a poem

A chapter in the book Worlds

The Case of the Pikkered Fwen

by Bill Schott

A sloth was shaving his face one year,

and may have finished, it isn't clear,

but stopped in mid September when

a kaloopolo pikkered his fwen.

A kaloopolo pikkered his fwen?

A kaloopolo pikkered his fwen, my friend,

and that's not the story's end.

It isn't often in these modern times

you hear of a sloth-shaving story that rhymes,

or that a fwen could get pikkered this way,

in the sloth-shaving months after May.

This seems to be proof of our social decay,

that a fwen of a sloth could get pikkered this way,

in the sloth-shaving months so long after May.

So a half-shaven sloth takes his well-pikkered fwen

to the sheriff of Slothville, Yosemite Sven.

By the time he arrived, in the November snow --

November!?!? You bet; them sloths are sure slow -- so --

by the time he arrived, in the November snow,

the sheriff had joined a reality show

called the Real Housewives of Cleft, Idaho.

The show was unscripted, so the director guy chose

to include the half-shaven sloth with sharp toes.

He'd have to get married to a gal from the town;

either Killer Kilcalley or Kumquat the Clown;

The sloth called on Kumquat, but she shot him down,

so he got hitched to Killer, in a red satin gown (she wore black).

Between inane spats and meaningless chatter,

the sloth brought up his pikkered fwen matter.

The sheriff droned on about the jurisdiction,

and suggested that the pikkered fwen was mere fiction,

to which sloth retorted in sloth-perfect diction

that the sheriff had a head-in-his-asshole affliction.

The sloth then pulled on a zipper he'd found

and the Yosemite Sven suit fell to the ground.

There stood a naked and nervous kaloopolo

with pikkering paste all down his papoopogo;

the ratings then shot to the astroWOWnomico.

After years of a show that often offended,

the Real Housewives of Idaho ended.

Sloth returned home to his own place

to resume the shaving of his slothy face.

He'll be taking his time; no need to race;

so ends the tale of the pikkered fwen case.


Poet's Choice--NO DQ contest entry


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