Playing with a set of letters
Playing with a set of letters
is the war of all typesetting.
Lest we first ogle antipathy,
lets hope warty genitals fit
within Flo, a typesetter slag.
Ah! Ingnite, spew lost flattery,
Lose thy writ pageant itself,
Flee its postal, weighty rant,
Lets stifle Pythagorean wit.
Was pity felt altogether? Sin?
Will yet the fanstasist grope?
Won’t the pasty filligree last?
Or will the sensate fatty pig
Let farty pathogenesis wilt?
I was the poet - sling flattery!
[sub](And if you don’t get it yet, the word ‘clue’ doesn’t apper in the poem, neither could it)[/sub]
Personally, I’m too busy doing a combination of gawking in awe whilst attempting to try something similar to sling flattery. Sorry. 
Plagiarist! - We felt snotty eh?
Realise the swift, tangy plot;
Oily, heartfelt angst? - Spew it!
the reply: sing of wit, at least
I see a pattern, yet I fail
to grasp its real intentions.
Listen; always get the profit -
grip the analyses, let oft wit
feign thy wet spittle or, alas!
fetter the gin pistol always.
Let stealthy praise now gift
thy sweet patronage, fill its
patrolling eyes, that few sit
to greet a nasty wisp, fill the
ghostly, wet, reptilian feast.
Lost, failing the test, we pray.
I relent. Shew a tot Pity’s flag.
Ire left no ghastly waste-pit
To enter. Yet I saw lights lap
fitly against the two lepers.
Alas, dumber than previously
thought am I. Asprin awaits
where?
See now the gritty pitfall, as
Welsh tits gratify antelope?
Stop L! Infiltrate thy sewage
not, as the fragile styli wept.
I fear talent, style, go with…
Knowing what the hell to do with the thrice-damned “p”.
this lunar ode
(etaoin shrdlu)
i’d hustle an…or…
oh…adult siren
true island ho
hair done slut
on leash i’d rut
“learn!” i’d shout,
“ha! rude slit, no!”
“lash, untie rod!”
(hot lard in use)
i’d tan her soul
do her anus ‘til
tail she do run
i’d salute! horn-
held unit soar!
horntail deus
as i’d hurtle on
on! lurid haste
eat, hurl, do sin
art die! on lush!
onrush at idle
haul sod! inter!
haunt red soil
inhale dust or
let in dour ash
at loud shrine
(tao led his urn)
a thunder soil
than sod i rule
ah, role in dust
i usher to land
“death”, I slur on
“should retain”
his nature old,
sane, lurid, hot
(nod irate lush)
sad I hurtle on
thus rid alone
(i hunt sad lore)
so i ant-hurdle
nadir, the soul
laud his tenor
roast idle hun!
or until hades
elan rid south
hatred in soul
daunt her soil!
daunt her soil!
Playing with a set of letters?
As I weep for thy gilt talent,
lost, praying that we feel it
swelling that peaty fire to
fit great poesy… with all ten
fingers, I type that low tale:
Fate shows it yelling patter!
hangs head in shame Best I could come up with. Mange, you rock!
Also, you have too much free time…
Oh damn, I just realized that I’m missing an s in every line. Back to the drawing board. sigh
Aha! And closer to what I wanted, to boot!
clears throat
Playing with a set of letters?
As I weep for thy gilt talents,
prose fails it. We that gently
try at waiting felt hopeless.
Go then yet faster; I will paste
these pretty gifts on a wall, I
that’ll see poetry wasting, if
'tisn’t where all ye fit go past!
(also the less fit, were we to have any in this corner of the office, which we don’t.)
Pest trial twins yet half ego,
half reptile. Stay to set wing
these twain are pigs let to fly
leaping with fetters lost, ay
pale tin glows tasty fire - the
foley artist lap the twinge
of pain: ill waters get the sty
wet. Later they fling its soap
to wing. It flatters lay sheep.