Music and Texts of Gary Bachlund

 

 

For the nonce, sense - words celebrating nonsense

             Her highly floppy flabble robbled to and fro, moving to delight in scents as forth and back to go did highly floppy flabber with dancing eyes reflect that this with that's a chafing dish, to bill and coo too great effect. His lowly lordly ladle contained yet unrestrained thought without much thinking till it bluely verily stained and then began his shrinking as many tails attest in tales as tolled men's inking soothed, odd reasoned at is best.
             Will he would he wonder that all might seethe the day when highly floppy flabber would tear such masks away. All kings' horses and all queens' men tried to stopper one bottle, but all this did was sure to do: it opened wide the throttle, for of our tails and tales entails such a seamy see me life, wherein two asinine entities might cuckoo man too wife.
             Hilarious cackles, vanities' fairs, market stalls stocked and priced with tall tales' tails unending proving the willing act sufficed. Will he won't hilarious across histories' shifting sands which tell retell with footnotes of swells and swelling glands.
             One moniker sticks, the yikes of her, to adventures big and bold recounting tawdry episodes, the old story growing old, for older by far the very same as stories, centuries gray, recount many manly vote for the power filled and their prey. For the nonce, sense sends what's ever always come, when the supposed brightest blunder and to stupidity succumb.
             For the nonce celled in prison, the one who escapes the most is for the nonce the nonce who as publican can boast, when flying high and higher on rehabilitations' breeze tells a truth worth telling of party boy tricks and sleaze. The measuring sticks are magic changing measures all at ease with ever-changing measures of adults and adulteries. Nonce sends all this message, to this and that alike, that nonsense is most sensible like the fabled finger in the dike. Flood the world with tales and sure wetting is assured; but much dries instantaneously painting all pictures then as blurred.
             There's a reason in a rhyme when rime will form and haze to cover clarified vision as time seeks to dimly daze what was once clear, occluded, excluded by most folks, that these, with their characters' foibles, are purveyors of not sense jokes.
             Bee, jay, blue jay, birdie, have you any shame? No sir, I have not, sir, for Teflon coats my name, out from under scrutiny with explanations rare, to tell my truth worth telling, that truth is oft unfair. Speak not longer, word it not, the tale of the blue blood spot. It's not a tale worth telling, except when telling all a lot. Details entail the tale of her highly floppy flabber, as they tell of the expos√© which erupts yet again to gabber. Trivial talk is talk for the nonce, as published again and now, of a barnyard cock and his hens and even of his cow.

 

Copyright © 2014 by Gary Bachlund