TRIUMPHANT AS THE OLD SLEIGH BELLS

I am like the wanderlust that floats on the high seas waves, that foams over hills and vales,on the lakes beneath the trees and the forest,Dancing with the breeze as they gyrate,gritty as the old sleigh bells twinkles my verve for a dent in my painstaking pang,My vacuous legs stretched at suicidal pace,though barely sullied by sulphurous escapades,tossing my head in sprightly comedy of gutter dance,even as the waves themselves personified,did dance before me seductively like a geisha girl and i the gigolo,For Oft in such a jocund,in my pang when upon my couch reminisced,brooks of brood triumphant as the old sleighbells,raptured my petite solitude.For a manifold of footsteps,footloose do i make as the old sleighbells,to bliss my dreamland,that flashes of imageries,romping my bald pate,fructify be and then with epicure in its sly,my heart pants still. Still my dukes upward maul for this phantom of delight'triumphant as the old sleigh bells'cherished me to chant and chantgalore

That was my phantom of delight of dreams not broken,of graveyards not enriched.When first,it gleamed upon my weary sight and hazy feet. At one moment's thrills,starred my eyes as the stars of the sky,A modest wraith,in dancing rigmarole to ecstasy fathom my bleeding heart.Eulogy,plaudits,gusto and deification,poured on this inspire.As mouth agape open,the bliss of a conqueror borne out of indurance,foresight horsesense and a nobly regalia,swaggered with angellic mission not far away, Triumphant Shall i chant 'triumphant as the old sleighbells'raptured my heart.Tis no space for a lachrymal infection,tis the worst pang is over,in a twinkling of an eye,I am as triumphant as my lofty heights and the old sleighbells. That neither the past nor the present or the unborn age,whenever my heart's dread avails,with grievious theft evicted,when that inspire thrills my badplate,stupefied by diurnal beguilling sports,winds impatience,gripping upon my navel,to flex with pledges and oaths yet unattained,do i my appologia

braggart in reiterated engross enthuse my catchy phrase. And then one more step,then one more salvo fire,And then one more step and one more salvo fired, i am as triumphant as my dreamland un-suppines unfurled and as the old sleigh bells a cheerful merry bore. They came into city and they could not triumph meet and hence they departed. Oh they came into the city to fleece triumph,still they could not triumph meet and once again they departed like the Sisyphus,pulling the stone adinfinitum.There is triumph before triumph,there is triumph after triumph,there is triumph above triumph,there is triumph beneath triumph,there is triumph in the seas,winds,land and space, All is triumph in their divergent escapades, As mortal marrows being expectant,jubillant as the old sleigh bells,all day belabour for the purple birth of the rising sun. Triumphant At The vale,jubillant at your mountains,jubillant at your caverns,maketh thee not a discontent when phrases and verses speak.

That oracle is my verve,in the howling wilderness,when i with nothing for nothing pacifies. When I with the trip to the barbarians for a nigh two decades throbbed,to assuage my agonies that glorious verse,thwacked them to my tendon kept yelling and chanting'jubilant as the old sleigh bells.And bare feet,did i trod it myself,none exasperated tis my facelift at the dying times,my potion and trauma flees,tis my dreamland arcane overwhelmed tis my starry morn eulogy appended,indeed jublilant as the old sleigh bells tis my glorious herald,starry nights bade farewell.

12/08/2017 10:47pm

DICKESIAN HOURS;AN Excerpts from SORCERERS STONE

12/09/2017 12:18am

Lord Dickens came to town,treacherous and oggling.Three bitches of the sorcerers stone, sorcerers of maiden dusk,In the trenchwarfare and the trenches' magical impulses wreathed,Dotard bitches,cheesepairing accustomed stings in the potion wring.Wryly and scarily,they scary torment feckless gowns,with the effrontery of hell and the vitriolic vituperation of oracle and magical spell invoked on the unsuspecting prodigy,in their efflorescence of dickesian plow cast.Hours and hours,hours by hours,hastily they vent,by Belzebub's ordnance,Dickesian wights outside the castle,on a booskied playground,stertorous stinkers cannabis smokes,as boozers boozed.Dicky throng etiolated,convulsing amidst laborious toil,Boshes of convulsion,contemptuous bowls of boors and boon companion frequent the isle,a splenetic windy sail,a scorch on coltish limpet clung. What a ridiculous bonvoyage for the evasive birds of passage,spoliated and sponge thrown too hastily.

Of the spoilsport,splodge of spoliation defied,a spatulated spank,its springtide spawned,a spine chiller's spinetingling spill,calumniating bed of quicksand upon which the latter's modus viviendi's booboos were supplanted in misery,yet disparate bookish cannot see,yet bonfire cannot burn. Thrice troublous plain's misery assiduous ensconce,Of the pyrates of freedom,ascension they browbeat to submission,in the inferno of sorcery stone.Quirky charms and spells,ethereal incantations cooks its cauldron speaks.So,froth a dickesian hours,tripple potions' ungrateful and uncluttered flock they a spangle to fleece a blueblooded clasp. Like Rome burning,like hell burning,broth and bail doth the gnomes ignominious,but bubbles,eyes of the owls,nocturnal awakening,sprintly thawed,to the sorcery of the sorcery stone,a tang of the tangential knot,so,fastened. Plutocracy is unworldly rodeo of voodoos and brotherly cult beware.