Men with waving beards and yellow underskirts
Roam the tenements dressed in checkered shirts,
Robotic pigs and shining dungs lied on their clockworked hands as they tread the sidewalks with their plasticine shoes.
Imagine, if you can.
They laid their hands at an electrified door and knocked as their clocks strike three.
The unicorned doorbells proved no use; it was neighing rainbow bees.
A battalion of emerald onions answered the door, their green eyes peeking at the membraned keyhole.
Imagine, if you can.
They told the onions, "A trade, mate. Perhaps?"
"A robotic pig for a singing duck egg, and a shining dung for a fried world map?"
Outraged, the onions shut the door while the men with yellow underskirts remained on their doorstep.
Imagine, if you can.
Meanwhile, up above, jolly heaven devils sat on the legless table.
They ate the shrieking mouthed buns, and swallowed the slimes woven from the sins of galvanized maples.
Styro-Bunny Michael saw the men in yellow underskirts,
and he prepared the fishing rod to catch them for a judgment.
Imagine, if you can.
The hook from the rod came down and let out its tongue, revealing a digital chocolate bar.
Its codes malfunctioned; the hook flew off,
and landed on a hotdog car.
The ketchup driver sizzled in surprise, that it sent the car smashing the house of the emerald onions.
Imagine, if you can.
The onions boiled in rage, that it made the others cry.
While men with yellow underskirts knew exactly who to fight.
They eyed Styro-Bunny Michael on the heavens, and threw their robotic pigs and shining dungs towards him.
Imagine, if you can.
The police officers, with bagpipes as guns, arrived on the scene, and took out their candy batons.
They eyed all the people involved in the chaos, like how a fairy probe is eyed by Houston.
"Who is the perpetrator?" One asked, and a man with a yellow underskirt pointed up towards the swirling floating cream in the sky.
Imagine, if you can.
Unbelieving, the police brought out the sauteed handcuffs, and cuffed the men and the emerald onions.
While Styro-Bunny Michael twisted his corrupted smirk and laughed at them like a comedy flick.
The men were sentenced to be jailed in a disco pit, while the onions were sentenced to be cooked for the annual cooking contest sponsored by an alien chef.
And that's how Styro-Bunny Michael earned the title of God, the God of the Psychedelic World.
Imagine, if you can.
BINABASA MO ANG
Poetry Of A Count
PoetryThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
