There's a fiddler on the White House roof.
As the world burns, he is clearly aloof.
Just like Emperor Nero,
he is surely no hero,
and frankly we've had enough of this goof.
Along the road where moonbeams spill,
the gypsy wagons wander still.
Their lanterns swing like fireflies caught,
each wheel a whisper, each song a thought.
The fiddler hums a ghostly tune,
that weaves beneath the weeping moon.
A tambourine keeps time with dreams,
and horses wade through silver streams.
No map can mark the path they tread,
no stone remembers where they led.
They chase the winds, they court the skies,
with fortune shining in their eyes.
And if you chance to hear their song,
it means your heart won't rest for long.
For once you glimpse the roaming stars,
your soul will follow gypsy scars.
Fiddler met twiddler on his way to church
fidgeting and diddling, their fingers in a lurch
Fiddle-sticks and Fiddle-faddle stopped to watch and stare
puttering and muttering, one day in autumn’s air
Shorts up his ****,
Not moving very fast,
Shorts are too mini,
You see too much skinny,
Hand down his pants,
As if there were ants,
The “fit” of his shorts,
Made our lunch aborts,
Fiddling fiddling all the time,
In his teeny tiny shorts the colour lime,
Slick and wet they are so tight,
Will he get out of them…
He might (not).
Music pierces where words escape every mood a tune a hearts embrace
revere musical and other traditions be not a slave to them
If I were a famous poet
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
All day long, I'd write a biddy biddy bum
If I were a famous man!
I wouldn't have to rhyme hard
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
If I were a biddy biddy famous yidle-diddle-didle-didle poet
I'd write an excellent epic full of great adventures that thrill the world,
And see the book reprinted several times
Some would be hard-bound and some just plain and cheap.
And sure I'd be famous and rich.
And I'll be a wealthy poet.
But the best part is that I'll win an Oscar
Ya ba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dibba dum
That's my greatest wish of all.
Alas…I’m not a poet at all.
Not to be sung :)
Music provides the mood
for movies, plays
parties and food
I'm a fiddler, that's my thing
I provide moods, gimme a ring
~ not afraid to play 'second string'
Grandpa fiddler was born in Bluegrass city
He could strum a fiddler like a diddler’s middy.
What does that mean? Ask a churched old biddy.
It means that you do not understand Bluegrass city.
Fiddler cats played bluegrass music down in Tennessee
Tapping their toes triple time said the Green She Bee.
Hoe down dancers came out of the woods to do a two step
Bluegrass music gave them extra zest and amazing pep.
Fiddler cats did not stop with that, oh, no!
They played opera music up in west Buffalo.
How they got that far north, we may never know
But the roads up there were full of snow.
Fiddler cats went out west next to play.
They were in Tucson and Dallas the other day.
I cannot keep up with their amazing way.
To travel from state to state, so merry and gay.
Mocking the dead, is that a thing?
How many ways can one be disrespecting?
Laws that cause offenders to be free?
Rape kits that exist only to be not breached.
Little lies and big divides of right and wrong genocide.
Our forefathers could not ever predict
We would be as disrespectful as this.
Ancestors bones surely roll like river
As the wicked become powerful while weak lips quiver
Fowl language and worse ethics morale and actions
Political powers that endorse for private satisfaction.
Mocking the dead what about the little kids
Who inherit the earth in the shape of it
We enjoyed youth clean air and water
And dirty it up for son and daughter.
Looking back only with limited views
Erasing the truth of ill will and abuse
A country started by taking from the natives
Blended into a melting pot of many races
Mocking the dead playing music head like fiddler
Warming the red bed of fire for Hitler
Are we so pompous we can never admit faults
Until it is too late and we too are lost?
Written 9/21/23 For Mocking The Dead Contest
Sponsor Silent One
Homey Domey Gomey Loamy Foamy Stoamy Roamy Doo
Delighted mice are dancing, around the kitty fiddler’s shoe
an hour ago I counted happy rodents numbering up to sixty-two
None of them realizing they are being led to a pot of tasty mousey stew
*Image of Bowed Instrument by WallF.
The Fiddler and the Frog
A fiddle idles then descends,
a clenched bow rest atop a noiseless chest,
a frog leaps nearby and suspends,
a final croak lets out breaking the quiet,
a calming all-around transcends,
a host of angels by a gate,
a harmonious melody blends,
a fiddler and frog joyously complacent,
a blissful duet eternity sends.
2023 February 5
*7th Place*
The Fiddler and the Frog
~craig cornish: Judged 2023 February 05
Once there was a handsome fiddler named George
Who always played love songs at nearby gorge
In his passionate playing
A red frog came out singing
Sounded like, “ Crack my crooked croak with sorge.”
When the frog’s voice got louder and louder
George’s playing paused awhile to wander
Crossing the fast flowing stream
Saw the red frog in his dream
Seated crossed leg like his girlfriend, Sander.
He let the frog jumped in his hand, smiling
“I like you, be mine if you are willing
In my dream you were my girl
Who transformed in just a twirl"
Then, kissed the frog saying, “You’re back darling.”
The fiddler played again for the last time
But found himself playing nursery rhymes
He could not control himself
Transforming into an elf
And his great violin into a chime.
Feb 4, 2023 12.48pm
sorge - means care or concern
Sugar water
Coughed
No worm inside.
Frogs bellies are completely full.
Children ask for more.
Fiddle around some more.
Brushing off the tail.
Sweet slumber of heavy rain.
Sweet rain drips and drops.
Sugar water.
2-3-23, contest by Craig Cornish.
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