The Campaign Builder's Guild

Do you by chance do limericks?

Limericks usually aren't my thing

Quote from: A Love Letter to the Lady GazaSay hello, hello
To the brand new world
Say hello, hello
To the brand new year
Say hello, hello
To liberty
Say hello, hello
To democracy

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat
Oh, the rocket's red flare...
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat
Not a refugee camp, it's an--
Did you hear the explosion?
Anarchy.

Demagogues,
Rather, Democrats,
Unequivocally support this strategy
(Because you can't fire a nuke from a slum
No air strikes in Iran though, please)

Sizzle, sizzle, smoke and flame
Thus the school shall go
Crackle, simmer, boast and blame
Necessary. Unfortunate.

And as a child's blood
mingles with the sand
You wonder:
This is the Holy Land?

incidentally, I'm just cross-posting stuff from my blog right now, a link to which is in my sig.

Quote from: The Friar and His AlmanacA man I once knew from the desolate slums
Who poured out his soul to the celibate scum
The peasant who hung from the devilish tongue
The priest of the pirate who peddles in puns

Had such a great fervor and feverish thrill
With dreadlocks and deadlocks and simplest of skill
That, still in the pillbox of Calgary Hill
The friars took arms and were ready to kill

The battle to wage was a frivolous one
Encouraged by Peter and Presbyter John
The question at hand was if war could be won
As so went the drum, ra pum pa-pum pa-pum.

And who could endeavor in blackest of times?
The Baptist is severed, a platter to find
The passions of passives entombed in the lime
Is pleasant and present and ready to climb

The smoke and gunpowder and cavalry ride
Recall and enthrall all of those on the line
In order and rank as the flank, it does hide
The war has begun with all reason aside

That man I once knew from the desolate slums
Who poured out his heart to the hellish of scum
Had died from an arrow that pierced through his tongue
As so went the drum, ra pum pa-pum pa-pum.

Last cross-post for tonight

QuoteThe newspaper's in the trash can
The journalist, he seems unsure
All the things he thought he knew
They now seem so absurd
Pointedly, he makes mention
Of his untimely decline
He climbs into his unmade bed
Weeping to his bride
The past, as he would tell it
Has been thwarted by the priest
As he stares out the window
Onto the empty city street

The day has almost receded
The night is beginning to rise
The city in all its splendor
Is about to come alive
Lovers crossing street lamps
Roost underneath the bridge
Both entranced by mystery
And both, so frigid
The constable, he sees them panting
He strikes them with his feet
And now, there are two dead boys
Lying in the city street

Pigeons trapped in cages
All along the rooftop edge
Are chirping their fears away
And are leaving hope for dead
The keeper has been little comfort
Or the ringleader at least declared
Lending to the line of thought
That soon would fill the air
Causing all to fill with fret
And some to even care
And as they hummed in unison
The message was discrete
None in cages or in the sky
Would sweep the city street

Fortune seems oh so tempting
At least to the midnight mime
He speaks with silent wisdom
And pretends that all is fine
He watches all the antics
Of the shadows and their kin
Confused by their hypocrisy
And scared of their intent
He sees a child walking
Into the where the bell has rung
The mime, he tries to warn her
But the devil has cut out his tongue
And as the child is lifted up
Dangling by her feet
The mime, he sits and sleeps alone
Upon the city street

The beggar, though just a boy
He sees the coming dawn
And so with cup in shaking hand
He refuses to be a pawn
Though his hat is on so crooked
And he is mocked by all who pass
The angels have prepared him
For this, his bravest task
Pity has been his companion
And often some disdain
But the beggar boy looks to the sky
As his tears mingle with rain
He needs the coin and needs it quick
For his parents are recently deceased
And he has to purchase flowers for them
And leave the city street

Quote from: Candles Lit Inside the Empty PaneWho could think that thunder can be stolen fast?
Forever bottled,  sold, as all things that pass?
The politician bleeds upon the floor
Living like a soldier without war
His life is flashing on the silver screen
Screaming all along the Aventine

Should not all who speak be made to think?
Do not all who gamble surely take a drink?
The undertaker dreams of greater things
Scrambling in the presence of the kings
As he shovels dirt into the hole
Where your body lays without a soul

Are the sins of others our burden to bear?
Sitting in a prison cell with graying hair?
The warden breaks the hands of the thief
Who promises to turn another leaf
Upon the tree of life, he's crucified
And only the old warden knows he's died

Quote from: The Unfortunate Perfunctory Cannibalism of a Farmhand's Calloused WorkshopOn a dead gray day in the middle of May
The boots of the strongmen crunch
Upon the hay of Mister Holiday
As the governor eats his lunch

A bird will sing, it's a pretty little thing
On top of the Cadillac car
The notes still cling to a broken fiddle string
In the back of the big black barn

On a dead gray day in the middle of May
A shotgun splits the air
And all will say of Mister Holiday
That at least he died with flair

Quote from: 9pxonly those[/size]
who want to hear
the march of all
the industries and
as the train moves
down the track you
feel your teeth
begin to rattle
feel the power
of the engine
tumbling fortune
bold decision
and as the sound
begins to fade
the awe of it
begins to fade
the thunderclap
begins to fade
and the train
begins to fade

into the horizon.

Quote from: The Bombardier's Funeral MarchUnzip your mind and play a little tune
For the maker of the bombs who died last June
It took us twenty weeks to find all the flowers
By then his dreams had wilted as fortune clouds glowered
As Capricorns and archers took to chaos cards of decks
The empty chamber of the gun would project a witch's hex
And should procession patriots choose to build an arch
All the horsemen of the land will join the Bombardier's march

The thief of thieves who stole a crown from the god-king's head
Whose trial was a sham, whose prison was of lead
He became the icon of the iron musketeers
Philosophized and prophesied by warehouse women seers
Whose visions crawled into the minds of mobster mentalists
And promised to advance the cause of the wanted list
 As the drought began to drawl and thirst began to parch
So began the wicked task of the Bombardier's march

Cascade clavichords and washed-out brass brigades
Began to burst and break as though they were grenades
And wisdom-wishes of the masses and the thriving streets
Pebbled all the prison walls with pasted patterned sheets
Orchestras of violence moved swiftly without shame
And the bombardier evoked the king to blame
He was killed for negligence of the tax on starch
But now we all shall honor the bold Bombardier's march

Quote from: Epitaph of a Beautiful TyrantWho will mourn
the butterfly
smashed against the
window pane?

Who shall grieve
the monarch dead
ended early
in her reign?

The graveyard moths
imps of commerce
do they fret
or feign?

acceleration / hyperactive / life and death / changing hands and / changing heads, hydra / wisdom w/o there ideas / ideals / pouring / torrential / ending / all / linear thought

Quote from: Yearning Visions of the Midnight QueenStarlight burns within your eyes
as you don your
olive-tree jacket

Your oracle smile,
as though Inspired
by a goddess

Your laughter is like
a dove perched
upon a church bell

Your smile is
a flash of light
eviscerating darkness.

Beams of fortune
Tides of honesty
Your gleaming mind

I need you in my life.

Quote from: Vibrant Throes of SympathyWispy strands of yesterday
Your solemn ocean-eyes
The warmth of your words
Sweet melodies build into
Symphonies of ideas
With paint-brush precision
I prime, then color
my adoration.

Quote from: Song & DanceSweat-drenched keys flash piano verdicts
Rhythmic be-bop transcends time
Wiggly trumpets scream into circuits
The bassist feels his temper climb

Chaos (panic) on the ball room floor
Nightclub matchsticks burn with glee
The shaking thunder of the frat house door
The old man and his wife's bad knee

Music, dance, future, chance,
Euphoria in its grandest splendor
Romance at its utmost tender

Chaos, order, movement, stance,
Calypso corridors of pulsing trust
Improvised signals of lust

Quote from: MacabrePerched upon the midnight crown
The chancellor is shuttled down
He answers all opponents' claims
But secretly records their names
His police parade at dawn
And the king is now a pawn
As sonnets soon are penned in jest
And pinned upon the hangman's breast
The skies are red, the moon is black
The devil's hand is on my back
But when I stare into your eyes,
I can see through their lies

Suited for the Senate seat
The poor man bleeds from his feet
And secretly believes his call
Is sacred and is meant for all
Holding baskets full of bread
The Lion of the floor is led
Into pacts and pointless trades
Exchanges born of hopeless knaves
Solemn servants scrub his brain
Until only his hate remains
But when he stares into your eyes,
He remembers why he cries

Power, money, sex, and wealth,
Seeks the sailor for himself
But unknown to the captain's crew
Their souls were to the devil due
As yellow seas of brimstone, smoke,
Ash, disease, and death were stoked
Sulfur tides begin to crash
Against the shores to seethe and thrash
Shipwreck memories of life
Are stolen by the knives of strife
But as the sailor sees your eyes,
The clouds are parting in the skies

The clock and all its gears shall crumble
The bunkers of the priests shall rumble
Humble, hopeless peasants shriek
As missiles kill the swift and sleek
The noose is tied around my head
The rope is made of flame and dread
The words and daggers of the clown
Become the floods that nobles drown
The drummer rattles at my cage
Persistent in his sightless rage
And as I look into your eyes,
I wait for all the  sweet goodbyes