Pete's poems from the night.

32,078 poems read

Horror in the outback.

Well people one and all gather about the crackling fire
While I recount the tale of jasmine the psychotic chipmunk
She was a terror of the outhouse armed with a pitchfork
With an addiction to buttermilk, watercress and jazz funk.

Picture the scene if you dare, late at night, an unlit log cabin
A porch swing squeaks in the breeze, a victim caught short
Fumbling to the outhouse, within the under brush she waits
A bad ass rodent, leaf mould smellin' with a gravestone heart.

A thunderstorm released, sigh of relief but no toilet paper!
Sweet honeysuckle camouflages the distinct toilet aroma
From within the cow barn a cowbell rings of impending danger
Too late she leaps the wood pile with the skill of a hurdler.

Prongs glint from lovingly sharpened upon a whetstone
Years of hiding in the old barns workshop has taught well
Bursting open the door with a tornado rush, she thrusts
A sky of starlight is filled with one in pain, you could tell.

With buttocks on fire he leaps the stonewall into a cornfield
With escape his intention he hears a tractor start up, uh oh
He briefly wonders what modern animal experiments involve
As buttercup the rooster is awakened from a well earned doze.

Trained in the arts of shadow wrestling and candlestick making
The arch enemy of Jasmine with a buckwheat smell, and some
Since his accident with a bucksaw he could no longer crow
And I heard on the grapevine he wasn't particularly handsome.

Where was I? oh yeah to the chase scene of gripping intensity
A man, a rodent and a heroic chicken in a struggle of wits
Smashing through the back door of the barn, seething with intent
Jasmine tears up the back road but of course within legal limits.

Jumping before the runaway tractor buttercup issued a term
I'll fight you to the death upon that hilltop with the craggy outcrop
They both look at me as I write and wonder at my crowbar style
I say they should wait cos it'll only get worse before I stop.

Anyway they didn't meet there, they met, where do I dare
mmm passed the old water well at the unused watermill
Upon the millstone they fought, pitchfork and candlestick
The fight between good and evil lasted till next snowfall.

Now to conclude this yarn would need another poem
Of how the woodchuck could chuck wood over a steeple bush
And why the saw horse was strangely placed upon a flagstone
That woodsmoke smelt of rag-rug and firefly, whatta rush.