A Gaping-Wide-Mouth Waddling Frog, illustrated by Walter Crane

   

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illustrated by Walter Crane (1845-1915)

   

from The Buckle My Shoe Picture Book (1910)

   

(see The Flip Book version at Internet Archive)

   

   

A Gaping-Wide-Mouth Waddling Frog
   

   

   

A gaping-wide-mouth-waddling frog,
Two puddings’ ends would choke a dog,
Or a gaping-wide-mouth-waddling frog.
   

   

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Three monkeys tied to a log,
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Four puppies with our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Five beetles against the wall,
Close to an old woman’s apple-stall.
Four puppies with our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Six Joiners in Joiners’ Hall,
Working with their tools and all.
Five beetles against the wall,
Close to an old woman’s apple-stall.
Four puppies with our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Seven lobsters in a dish,
As fresh as any heart could wish.
Six joiners in Joiners’ Hall,
Working with their tools and all.
Five beetles against the wall,
Close to an old woman’s apple-stall.
Four puppies with our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Eight peacocks in the air,
I wonder how they all got there?
You don’t know, and I don’t care.
Seven lobsters in a dish, as fresh as any heart could wish.
Six joiners in Joiners’ Hall, working with their tools and all.
Five beetles against the wall, close to an old woman’s apple-stall.
Four puppies with our dog Ball, who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.
   

   

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Nine ships sailing on the main,
Some bound for France, and some for Spain;
I wish them all safe back again.
Eight peacocks in the air,
I wonder how they all got there?
You don’t know, and I don’t care.
Seven lobsters in a dish,
As fresh as any heart could wish.
Six joiners in Joiners’ Hall,
Working with their tools and all.
Five beetles against the wall,
Close to an old woman’s apple-stall.
Four puppies with our dog Ball,
Who daily for their breakfast call.
Three monkeys tied to a log.
Two puddings’ ends, would choke a dog,
Or a gaping, wide-mouthed, waddling frog.

   

   

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Today is World Samina Malik Day: Terrorize your lyrics

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A reminder about December 6th, World Samina Malik Day. It is after 11:00pm here on East Coast USA, which means that it is already December 6th in half the world. I greet you in freedom, and with poetic license to do so–for now. Yet, this is the day Samina will be sentenced for writing poetry, no matter how lenient or harsh. Sentenced.

She is an online poet. Her being found guilty convicts us all, every poet who has ever imagined and wrote outside the bounds of the politically correct. Every poet.

Last month, she was found guilty of a “lesser charge” of “possessing documents likely to be useful to a person committing or preparing an act of terrorism.” What she downloaded, however, are documents likely to be useful to a person committing or preparing an act of lyricism. In fact, she did not only think about committing lyricism, she did it.

After work tomorrow, which here will be after she is sentenced, I will dress like her (which for me will mean looking like an aging ninja in jeans). I will download The Koran, to align myself with Muslim thought, and consider myself a brother born foreign. Links are available here: Wikipedia: The Qur’an. I will visit Islamic forums and blogs, and download the al Qaeda manual. Links to some Islamic sites can be found at the bottom here: World Samina Malik Day.

I will surf and muse from there. I will look for the taboo, the non-PC. I will look into beheading, and surf and muse from there, to Torture, Al-Qaeda Style, and beyond. All this in preparation for an act of lyricism, to be a lyrical terrorist, to be a poet.

Please join me, where horror and political protest merge into the ears of those who would be politically correct, where terror enters lyricism, where Lyrical Babe became Lyrical Terrorist. Let’s do her taboo. You may.

   

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