I haven't observed scads of skies,
though some that I've seen have seemed prize,
yet much of that ceiling
called "welkin" I'm squealing
has spouted too many loud lies.

We soon might broach absolute bliss
by mixing scant rye with our Swiss
and lending all sailing
those kinds of availing
that wake a quite lovely abyss.

But perhaps we can talk of joy
and happiness now my dear boy
for sadness abounds
in my middle around
where fat seems to have had a ploy

The silken reflections you offer
propose that most thought is a scoffer,
and I now agree
that every world's free
to love all the sorrow worlds proffer.

The best thing to do, in some cases,
may be to make many glad faces
and thus to imply
that nary one sky
enumerates any disgraces?

Well crying does let it all out
and once done you can then give a shout
and do something that's fun
even go out for a bun
and all sadness can then seem in doubt.

I'm hoping I'll move toward fine leaping
and far from horrifically creeping,
as life is a war
demanding we store
much else besides versions of weeping.

Poor you Bruce you do sound in the dumps!
Well at least you haven't got mumps...
I hope life gets better
Just wear a new sweater
And try and get joy in some jumps

Devoid I have been of distress,
yet, though all my life seems a mess,
I may have developed
some sorrow enveloped
in shapes many forces might bless.

Our moments of trying to state
our part in life's endless debate
indeed may cause clauses
that brim with more pauses
than ever yet crammed any slate.

Well life on the fast roller coaster
makes life seem like a hot toaster
sometimes it is burnt
with some lessons learnt
but other times like a bright poster

(oh the nonsense I'm writing here
sometimes must be hard to bear
the rushing to rhyme
takes quite a long time
and comes out with a meaning unclear!)

Comparing our sorrows and thrills
allows us to like certain ills.
We daily seem likely
to stay vastly shrikely
while prodding more moments toward frills.

I guess we won't appreciate joys
And leisure time good fun toys
unless we have pain
just now and again
so that the good times don't start to cloy.

Each superabundance of pain
is something that helps life complain.
An excess of pleasure
exacts some real measure
of joy that appears very vain.

Illusions persuaded the sky
to have all the sweetness of pie,
as life's varied forces
had learned which remorses
best offered a dab in the eye.

We seldom believe what he spouts,
for he is the vainest of louts.
We like him a little
yet note how much spittle
results in his wars against doubts.

We've certainly come to our senses
in manners that mend many fences,
as if we're aware
that hide isn't hair
and every fresh sadness condenses.

My martyrdoms bring large disguises
affecting how light re-arises,
and, soon, several stars
have brought out some cars
quite likely to add to most sizes.

Once language began hurried forming
that merrily mirrored huge storming
great birthdays had found
some sensitive ground
for hoopla as grand as most warming.

One trilogy offers a story
of sorrow and ardor and glory
and has as its hero
an absolute zero
that causes all worlds to seem gory.

One temporal aspect of all
the goings of life is called "fall,"
where leaves that keep dying
give proof worlds keep frying
in batters and oils that spell "squall."

I often feel ready to dwell
in every deep section of hell
and often am given
such hell I stay riven
till Nature has no sense of smell.

I haven't invited much love
that doesn't imply some sad shove,
nor have I created
a world that stays fated
while breeding divine kinds of dove.

The walls of a pub had to crumble,
for everything turned so darned humble
that fish upon fish
expressed no firm wish
in favo[u]r of forces that stumble.

A pub with no landlord goes downhill
lack of service a most bitter pill
If you want a drink
Your thirst has to sink
Or desire will just make you ill