Excerpt for Gaylord Fancypants Writes Poetry Too! by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Gaylord Fancypants Writes Poetry Too!

Gaylord Fancypants

Copyright 2019

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Cover photo is Creative Commons by dva41:


Truth is uncouth like lies

And looks the same in your eyes

But one stirs stews

And the other farts flies

And it's not the one you might surmise

The truth is that hurt tries to curb its guise

And replace wise hows with burnt whys

Russian spies can only slight crews and bruise highs

You can't pick your truth

But you can choose your lies


I disagree with the premise of free

And I see it on sale for a miserly fee

Only a crumpet, a ring and a bucket full of tea

I disagree with sunshine and fleas

Fun times and excessive pleas

Gun-shy of puns, lies that punch high

That get me drunk-like

With spunk that flows right out

Of any punk's spout

Which pours cunts like sprouts

No matter how much the hunks might doubt

I would never dunk light

Because I disagree with spite

And with all the things that fright

I sing of sight, carousing all night

Dowsing for flight

I disagree with the right

And all that is trite, the pall that is white

And the mall that is all that was never right

I disagree with the wall, and I fight its fall

The brightness of dull is the cull of the call

That's why overful goals ogle agog

At clean stalls and moles smarter than thee

It boggles what souls flee to a tree

I wholeheartedly disagree with the premise of free


Focus is the mode of

Spoken cokeheads

It's forever broken

Like bespoke reds

For never-focused


Who smoke in sheds

To the end of where

Jokes began; the start

Of focus' friend

Is the beginning

Of a toke and a bend

Focus is too woke to spend

It's the only locus

That was never either hocus nor pocus

That's why an unfocused poke is

Like the weather's coastal opus

Focus at the most is to boast of

The host of all hosts and the ghost

That we bittersweetly grossed

It gives you heat in which to roast

Focus on the wheat

Or your bread will never be toast

Your attention is gold

And is stolen by the bold

Those who flip and those who scold

Who then rip on rock and roll

Your attention is sold

Leaving your spittle in the cold

With little to love

And nothing to hold

No rubs, no trubs, no folds

Your attention is gold

To the folk who have yet to be polled

Who so ignorantly lolled

No matter how you roll

If your intention is intention

Every mention of attention

Will turn the young into the old

Outrage smirks when you aren't looking

Like an act that isn't booking

A man who sees but isn't looking

A chef that sizzles never cooking

Outrage is the thief who builds his clout a page a week

Upstage of bleak, there is the rage of which you seek

Out but feeling inward, apace of age

One is never too enraged to speak

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(Pages 1-4 show above.)