Interactive Poetry Duet

I
You aren't worth turning in cat.don't you
Know that you're already your own worst
Enemy?

You're my pet. I post, you sock puppet
Right in. I own you. Sock puppets R U
Nic theft isn't above you any more than
False reporting to the cops is anyway.

"I'll Be Blunt" post again..showing the Slate
editors' proof where he revealed how
you had stolen every conceivable
tempo nic variation you could come
up with?

Yes, lord, nic stealing another specialty
of your stalking no infraction too low
for you to go in your sociopathic-
like mind.

Trying to obfuscate and twist
my intent. You are a sociopath cat,
indeed to attempt to do so.

Albeit, a very lame one.

II
Dead horse rotting in the sun
the king won't let me bury anyone.
Flies flit back and forth carrying the meat
some new nic, with a stick, takes up the beat.

Dead horse rotting in the sun
can't ignore the stench, can't pretend the battle's won.
Wish I could tear my eyes away and leave
but new nics arrive, tugging hungrl'y at my sleeve.

Dead horse rotting in the sun,
crowds begin to gather, darkness bleeds the fun.
Feeble are my tries at turning shit to loam,
legion are the new nics as they glut the cyber home.

Dead horse rotting in the sun,
no one knows what happens when the rotting's almost done.
Clever lads who paint a lady with nought but burger grease
are simply hosts for new nics who bring nothing but disease.

III
Bloated horse, you've stayed too long
for why else would I sing this song

Always floating to th' top o' th' Fray
every single fucking day

Bloated horse, my god you stink
when I whiff you my heart doth sink

The nausea brought about my it
starts to bother me just a bit

Bloated horse, you they beat
but what's left is barely meat

Long ago it splattered
as though any of that crap mattered

Bloated horse, you never leave
and for that I truly grieve

But I know someday you'll go
and the difference it will show.

IV
Surely you have run your course,
Stinking, putrid, rotting horse.
Day by day you rise up – how?
Stinking, putrid, rotting cow.

Not one whit does niceness show,
Stinking, putrid, rotting crow.
Now you suck the brain from skull,
Stinking, putrid, rotting bull.

People’s lives are lost in fog,
Stinking, putrid, rotting dog.
Futile effort to traipse your heap,
Stinking, putrid, rotting sheep.

I must leave you - do or die,
Stinking, putrid, rotting fly.
Else you’ll never ever end.
Stinking, putrid, rotting "friend."

V


Beating the dead horse
For all to see your great shame
Whack it hard for me

This will never end
The pointlessness of it all
Spinning nics abound

Stinking, stupid horse
You are most annoying here
Moreso than I am

Pixels wasted there
Saying the same thing again
I know ignorance

VI


Sing to me, Muse, of horses long dead – rotting in the square,
yet to the despair of all about, none can ignore as the wraith
rises in the MBTU.

Sing of the days gone by, Muse, when Fraysters wrote great songs
and the threads were long, and filled with soft-spoken and
learned wit.

Sing to us all, Muse, of the wand’ring of great Heroes such as
Brewmeister and Ioz, who have, lo these dark days, moved beyond
the putrid stench of laid low Best.

Oh for the days of long ago Heroes, those of Achillean splendor
and great depth of purpose
and prose.

Oh, Muse, sing … sing to us and bring us once again those glory days,
those bright-filled days, those light-filled days,
those glowing, glistening gleaming days.

Sing, oh Muse, and release us from this grasp of wine-dark,
impoverished thread-baring that lashes itself to corpses of dead horses,
and whose stench rises in the coming night,
like darkness from the Western edge of the world.

Oh Muse, sing.