“What’s wrong with you?” they asked.
“There are so many things.
It’s as if the weird were tasked
With raising a king of kings.”

“What’s wrong with you?” they sighed.
“You’re oddly odd, we’ve tried
To include and be your guide.
Why won’t you let us all inside?”

“What’s wrong with you?” they groaned.
They asked and sighed and moaned.
“We so want to see you fly!
But you leapt into the sea
And refuse to come get dry!
Why can’t you just agree
That this normal is the best
And come join us like the rest?”

“The toilet’s not for planting trees,
Stars aren’t alien campfires.
You can’t grow great friends from cheese
And why sing sweet songs to spiders?
Don’t shake hands with your face,
A river cannot be your brother.
The back side of nowhere ain’t a place
So stop insisting that we go there!
You can’t take whales on walks,
Or store extra holes in jars.
Stop trying to lion train rocks
And join us in this world of ours!”

“What’s wrong with you?” they huffed.
And I only ever said –

“Enough.”

There was a young lady of Raymond,
Who was perpetually maddened;
By docks in the dell,
Always giving her hell,
That ruffled young lady of Raymond.

There was an old man with a brush,
Who re-painted the world in a rush;
He found it a bore,
All the people adore,
This new world he made with his brush.

There was a young lady of Lima,
Who spent eighty years in a coma;
When she awoke,
She thought it a joke,
She was now an old lady of Lima.

This plays off of Hey Diddle Diddle by Mother Goose.

Hey diddle diddle,
The cow in the riddle
Meant to win over the moon;
But little he knew
Of gravity’s glue
And won’t be seen again soon.

I’ve always been a little loose
In matters of the head.
But now, Madness, I call a truce –
Bits of me have broken off
And are lying in my bed!

I’m coming off in chunks!
At the ripe old age of five!
A doctor couldn’t save me, punks,
Bring a builder or a bricker
Someone who might keep me alive.

My body’s always had its trouble,
I’ve had whole loads of leaks.
But now I’ll end a mound of rubble,
Bit by bit will leave me nowhere
But a throne among the freaks.

I cannot see a bad that’s worse,
Tell me the tearful truth –
What did I do to win this curse?
And what’s this piece that fell free first?
It looks like … like … a tooth.

There was an old lady of Cairo,
Who, wherever she went, took a scarecrow;
No birds would get her,
Of that she’d be sure,
That wily old lady of Cairo.

There was an old man on a train,
Who had a lustrous, lion-like main;
He frightened everyone,
Except the children,
Who thought there a zoo on the train.

There was an old lady of Lear,
Who never left home out of fear;
That she’d lose her way,
And end up a stray,
Never to return to dear Lear.

There was an old man of Buktu,
Who made him a rooftop canoe;
He paddled the town,
Far above ground,
That inventive old man of Buktu.

There was an old lady of Zurich,
Who refused to be seen out in public;
She went everywhere,
With sheets held in the air,
That hidden old lady of Zurich.

There was a young lad of July,
Convinced he was a firefly;
His wings wouldn’t go,
But he mastered the glow,
That brightest firefly of July.

Are you a secret?  I won’t tell.
I might be one as well.

Illustrated by Yanasel

Drawn by Ernest (more of his artwork here)

Bobble was a vampire
Of the hungry night.
Bobble was a vampire
Until that fateless bite.

A child who did not know
-Didn’t even know to know!-
Put a tooth into a vampire
And dealt a human blow.

That child bit into wild ruckus
And unleashed a foreign calm.
Bobble left the vampires
Thanks to new brother Tom.

Tom was that biting boy
Who turned night into a brother.
It’s Tom and Bobble now,
Each one living for the other.

We lost the meaning of Mistake somehow
And only think it bad.
Ms. never gave us anything
But what we never had.

This never knowing what we’ll get
Is what we cannot stand.
There’s no history in Mystery,
No known glory in the unplanned.

Ms. keeps us moving forward,
Mr. does the same.
They’re the only way we’ll ever hit
Better than our aim.

Sticks and stones may break your bones,
Words can hurt your feelings.
The double danger is hearts are homes
And might even hold more parts unknown
That don’t come as easily to healing.

Sticks, stones and words all hurt when hurled –
War’s our very best way to waste.
They should instead be careful placed
With love and thought right tightly swirled
To build a better backward world.