Parental Advisory

Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we propose to posit prose-like poetry
forming a form of continuous connectivity,
to communicate considerable contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose-like poetry is what you’ll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft are wrought, and revealed thusly,
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Smell Me



You'll note my nose, its width and length.
It's meant to tell of smells and stinks.
It tells me now how last night lingers,
stinking up my nose with fingers
thrust in just the perfect way,
and that is all I'm going to say.


The politics of compromise,
when once resolved between one's thighs,
extends unending through the mind. 
At least, that's what I hope you'll find. 

When someone says I smell ‘funny’, 
I say funny it is not,
when cannabis costs so much money,
and people are in need of pot.

To inure oneself of an odor 
might require my explaining why.
So, if you’d think to quell the stink, 
then with these words I’ll try 
to spell my smell, so that you may tell 
whether or not it’s satisfactory 
in its depiction of the predilection 
of the relevant olfactory 
sense.  As you see, some poet trees 
are forests filled with Gumps,
where ‘Stupid is as stupid does.’, 
and 'Sentez l'air du temps.’
means that seeds, planted in deeds, 
eventually will ripen. 
So, here’s your chance to take a stance,
and collect a sinus stipend. 



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