himynameischase Poetry (6)

I don't eat by the rules!
I eat what I want!
My shirt sports spaghetti stains
and I got a belly I can flaunt.

When I want food
I can't wait in line all day,
I make people move
and pull my chair to the buffet.

I eat any kind of cake,
chocolate, funnel, or pan.
Wrapped my finger in bacon
and took a bite off my hand.

I'm a Fruity Pebble rebel
built Cocoa Puff tough.
I eat pop rock salads with gravy
until my face is double-stuffed.

I get hungry at 9,
and eat until 10,
and by 10:07,
I'm hungry again.

I eat sushi and connolis
while I lust for burritos
smothered in ranch dressing
and syrup on my Doritos.

I feast like a king
and pillage the table
lay waste to the desert tray
conquer the soup with a golden ladle.

They call me rude,
they call me crude,
they call me the dude
who ate all their food.

Once upon a time,
far far away,
it lived sad and lonely
and wept every day.

Sad because it was lonely,
lonely for it was the only
Unicorn that was born
with more than one horn.

The other Unicorns taunted,
they teased, and they scorned
the sad, lonely horse
for having more than one horn.

The sad, lonely horse
couldn't feel much worse.
So, it galloped off to yonder.
Where it went...

...hmm...

...I wonder...

The dog had run down the street.
The dog got tired from the heat.
He found a tree and took a seat,
and chowed upon a bone to eat.

Why do you lie there, fur, blood, and bones?
I guess you didn't run fast enough home.
Thought that you could out-run a Jetta.
Thought you could cheat death; but, death would let ya.

So, sad is the forest that knew your name,
sad are your squirrel babies that will never see you again;
but, let them know you did not die in vane.
No, you died in the break-down lane.

Soon will come a man, with a scoop and a box,
and scrape your squirrel carcass off the hot, black rock,
and pull down the eye lids on your little squirrel face,
and lay you to rest in a better place.

Now I know why you lie there, flattened on your back,
with your smile in the shape of a tire track.
So, I say a prayer for the squirrel that I mourn,
that heaven is filled with a bunch of 8-corns.

Blood stained fingers and mucasy clothes.
Why do these pickers pick their nose?
Didn't their mamas ever love them,
or the man in the sky up above them?

Is it natural instinct? Who taught this trade?
They pick, look, and smile at what their nose made.
They pick with such force; but yet, delicately.
And chomp on those snots like a delicacy.

Lovers may bleed from the prick of a rose,
fighters will bleed from knuckles and toes;
but, rather bleed than blow, there are those
who dare raise a finger, and pick their nose.

Today I feel sad.
I feel oh-so-bad.
It's beautiful outside,
makes me oh-so-mad.

I don't wanna enjoy it.
I don't wanna have fun.
I don't want it right now.
I want it all to be done.

Today I feel sad.
I feel oh-so-bad.
It's the best feeling
I think I've ever had.