I adore a nice swim in the sea
It makes me feel ever so free
With sand between toes
And salt up my nose
And waves crashing up over me.

My sleepy old body seems ready
to render all worlds quite unsteady.
I seem in a lurch
that put in a church
might make every neck quite unheady.

The prices of food and of oil
are monstrous and bid us recoil.
My snaky old body
now acts rather shoddy
while striving to color the soil.

Oil prices are making me wary
So now I will make a quick query
Former question was "Trip?"
But now a new quip:
"Are Mid-east revolts necessary?"

A monster once found in a cave
Began such a rant and a rave
He pulled such wierd faces
Such horrid grimaces
He scared away even the brave.

Some fabulous monster appeared
and asked me just why I had sneered.
My answer was quiet
and spoke of a diet
wherein every sorrow seems speared.

You've been some sad student of bliss
if I now may judge by your kiss.
Your lips, teeth, and tongue are
fine forces which, stung, are
quite sure to make each **that** a **this.**

Ten lanky guitarists of note
played tunes any future might quote.
Those tunes often fashioned
a sense quite impassioned
that shepherds hellaciously gloat.

I once knew a cellist who played
His cello to a very high grade
This man, highly strung,
Plucked the strings with his tongue
For the plunkety sound that it made.

They went very deeply toward hope
and found some quite usable soap.
Soon troubles were bubbles
(and bubbles mere troubles),
and life was a hardly firm rope.

Soap bubbles float high in the air
These featherweight balls hover there
They're lighter than feathers
Can sail in all weathers
Then pop and they all disappear.

My usual answer to hope
is something akin to wet soap.
I breed scads of bubbles
that mention the troubles
that come to all things of great scope.

As late as past midnight, her beauty
remains and transforms life to booty.
I sense that her tresses
imply she digresses
too nimbly to be no real cutie.

Demoted from yesterday's heights,
I'm learning to practice my bites.
My senses now foster
no absolute froster
but are as the veriest kites.

When hit by a snowflake, I cringe,
as snow soon can fashion a twinge.
(When hit by cool rain,
I swallow my pain,
since water implies binge on binge.)

Whatever the moon could recover
was held or was told ways to hover.
Some final report
produced a quite short
example of truth as a glover.

Behind every woman and man
are eons that form no sure span.
Life's infinite causes
might give us huge pauses
did something not bless our new plan.

I've eaten a lakeful of cod,
fish fashioned by someone hight **God.**
My next lenten longing
could be some deep gonging
that proves I'm a very nice clod.

I've eaten a river of fish
For Lenten fish-fry's though I wish
They'd relax the rule
(I'm no longer in school!)
Raw grizzly bears make the best dish

An answer quite slight might have fashioned
an anger no light would have rationed.
Big jolts could have cleft
some ways the next weft
was wearing a sheen lives kept passioned.

The wordplay of **Eunice** ain't puny,
to "moi" -- an inveterate loony.
[[I'm also a turkey --
a guy herky-jerky
AND fork-y and spoon-y and gooooon-y.]]

The roads were so greasy in Greece
When travelling out there with my neice
And in Turkey we ate
That fine bird on a plate
Made in China....a very fine piece.

To find the real heart of a matter
let's learn why some grease has to spatter.
One truth seems to be
that greases must free
their heat or grow fatter and fatter.

Our **Eunice** at last has arrived
and written some verses long-lived.
Poor ~~Brucie~~ is here --
to act strangely near
to staying too horribly jived!

The Limerick section's deserted
Its precincts all poets have skirted
On yesterday's date
There's none to relate
Today there's this one I've inserted.