Penny and Flay

There was once a young lad named Penny,
who rather preferred not his name,
so he went to have it changed one day --
at a mystical man named Flay.

Now Flay was an odd one,
that much is certain,
red hair about his puffed about his larger head:
he was Jewish, as were his curtains.

When Penny approached the delipidated home,
the sky had broekn into storm,
the roar of thunder bellowed overhead,
followed by a streak of lightening far from the norm.

He knocked thrice with the screaming head knocker,
as the plaque requested of him,
stood back,
as the door opened to accept him in.

Flay was waiting in his waiting room,
dressed in fine linen gowns,
a scarf pulled close about his very thin neck,
and shoeless, with both of his socks pulled down.

He smiled that wicked smile,
and opened his arms,
and with a voice more sour than honeysuckle weed,
said -- 'Hullo, what are you doing here!?' quite alarmed.

Penny responded that he wished his name be changed,
to something rather more masculine,
to which Flay responded (now quite calmed down),
'Why not feel my linen?'

Penny wonder what was averting Flay,
from changing his name -- this was the day!
No longer would he be called Penny,
lost in insult.

But Flay would not alter the name,
albeit how hard Penny may have made his attempts,
unless of course, he was given his pay.

And pay he was given, in generous amounts,
much the to pleasure of the mystic,
and he sat down at his battered round wooden table,
and began applying lipstick.

'What is this?' Penny asked,
naturally taken aback,
by the awkward act of feministm eminating from this man.
'Why do you apply lipstick, at the changing of my name?'

'Only to tell a story, my dear,'
was the quick repose of Flay,
'for a story I shall tell, and a message
you should endear.'

'My name was also Penny once, as it happens to be,
but since it was altered to Flay, now, my life
has not been kindly to me.

'Odd habbits have developed,
as this application,
and I only wish for you,
to carefully consider the situation.'

Consideration Penny took,
and carefully, as well,
and decided, for the sake of decision,
that some things are better left alone.

A Brief Etude

In a state of utter desperation to post something, here is some roughly-hewn sheet music -- 'A Brief Etude' as indeed it is.

Briefly Brass

The resident blogger must confess in his pride to bring to you a song that has been procrastinated for about a year, and is, at length, completed, albeit witha rather choppy conclusion. Please enjoy:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=S3hkGI29g37

The Hill of Holy Water

Here is a written poem about Jack and Jill. For nursery rhyme enthusists, it should seem familiar.

Jack was a prince,
but now a king,
whose father simply was unfit
to do continue ruling.

This was becuase the man was ill --
so terribly ill:
his life would be nihil,
without expediant aid.

So he told to the king Jack
(this was his son in fact)
that a cure he should seek
at the highest and meanest and purest of peaks.
Its appellate was simply 'Hill.'

There a stream would be found
from which holy water abounds,
and this alone, poured in the wound,
would prove a worthy cure for the cruel buffoon
(for so the wound was christened.)

Jack told his wife --
this was Jill,
who was the queen,
of his father, stricken ill.
He told her of his intentions to climb the Hill.

But Jill refused his offer for leave,
without her too, you must now see.
She feared for the life of her husband,
so youthful and prudent and intelligent.

With reluctance it was indeed,
that Jack did ever so much as concede,
to undertake the quest to find,
the Holy Water cleverly confined,
at the source of the stream of Hill.

And so Jack, armed with a pail and crown,
his face set in a staunt frown,
and Jill by his side,
ready to abide,
set off to climb the great Hill of olde.

They approached the base,
and looked upon the face,
of the great Hill mountain they would climb;
and within them fear was struck,
for it would take some carefully placed time.

As thier eyes rolled about the mountain
never did the peak greet them,
but Jill found a stream,
with which they would climb, even.

Up they went, to the right of the stream,
past boulders and rocks, and salamanders and things;
the air grew ever thinner,
and the atmosphere colder,
but the stream, nearing the holy water with each step,
even purer.

Some rocks hopped about,
greeting them with a shout,
whilst others snored very loudly;
one boulder did belch such a one,
that the air grew quite cloudy.

The hillside was alive, and friendly it seemed,
all but the terrain, which was rugged and mean, and would not falter.
But still Jack and Jill,
went up the hill,
to fetch their pail of water.

The peak now in sight,
the duo mustered thier might,
and hastened their step,
nearing the end of thier quest.

At the peak Jack nealt down,
looking into the purest of pure waters,
and lowered his bucket,
but his foot slipped into the stream.

The current pushed him down,
the bucket remaining,
Jill nearly fainting,
and found at the bottom,
with a crash into water,
that he was near death,
and broken was his crown.

Jill pilfered a bucketful of holy water
and nearly tumbled downthe mountainside of Hill,
in fear for her husband Jack,
whose soul might rest at the base of the rock.

She reached Jack,
after a time had past,
breathless and panting considerably,
and poured in his departing mouth,
a single serving of the holy liquid.

He awoke with a start,
life in him no longer stark,
and the two happily returned to the castle,
in which the king of old was stricken ill.

And they gave him a drink,
and saw him blink,
and all lived so happily
ever after.

The Most Extraordinariest Pup -- an Extroadinarily Brief Story

Here is a fable about a very smart doggy.

There lived once a small dog, an extraordinary dog if ever one did live. The creature, in humane terms, was brilliant. It could do things that many humans were unable to. It could play a concerto on a piano with such ease and grace one would mistake it for a Beethoven blessed with hearing once again. It could solve mathematics unlike anyone since Pythagoris had lived in ancient Greece. The hound was, if any word were better fitting, awe-inspiring.
But the dog also had an unusually large fondness of barking, howling, growling, and other motley noises that dogs are so fond of making. The dog would literally deafen one as frequently as it would astonish another. And clearly, this was a problem. Who would hear the mutt's volin solos if wearing earplugs whilst listening for all of that barking? Who would bear concentration with the blessed thing if it continued to howl whilst stylusing away at a mathematical algorithm? Eventually, the barking became such nuisance that none would bear speak the thing's name. It sim-ply wouldn't quit. People tried tying its muzzle shut, but the rope came loose; tehy tried calming the thing with herbal seditives, but that failed as well.
And so, for the sake of the populus, those unaware of the dog's penchant for deafening others, the dog was kept in isolation. There, it continued barking, howling, snarling, and grew increasingly more vicious, for this is what it's inner nature instructed it to do. When the thing was relased from isolation, its larynx had failed, and thus its voice had died, as well. But no longer would it perform concerts or display public mathematical seminars, for it was a wild beast.
And here is the moral: One can never be the best in everything he might attempt, for this only results in an equal measure of malignment against this effort. The dog's barking, of course, had not originated until it had receivedf praise for its talents, at which point it knew none other than to rejoice -- by howling, growling, et cetera. This became so much habit, that it reverted to its instincts in isolation, becoming more of a vicious wolf than any well-trained pup as it was ever.

Along a Beach

Here is a poem lacking rhythem that entails beaches. And morals.

Once upon a time
in a land akin to this one,
there lived a being, understand,
with a conniving passion at the sea.

It wanted to count the grains of sand,
that so cluttered about the seashore,
and rambled in from the deepest of depths,
riddled with assortments of shells and creatures.

A life's work it would become,
but it was set in its ways,
and pulling on trowsers,
from its family it farewell bade.

It began by cupping the sand
within its hands, counting the grains with its eyes,
but when this did not work, he found a board,
and decided from this to derive.

From here it kept a tally,
of all the counted grains,
upon a sheet of wax paper
(all the better -- it wouldn't taper)
writing with a stylus of octopus ink.

It grew the wiser,
and less a miser,
as it began to bag the sand;
and with the passage of time,
so too did fall the beach level,
with the sagging grassy knoll,
aside the bareing shoreline.

Yet more time slipped away,
and there it was, anyway,
growing older, set so in its ways;
it would not stop until the grains
would drop, to nothing more that.

And here at last, it was,
its once clean trousers tattered,
a beard several miles long, growing upon its gaunt face;
the beach was no more, but the sandless sea rolling into its sandless banks,
each grain counted and tallied.
The man smiled and died.

But here the question remains:
what should happen after the wax paper degrades into the ocean,
as it did?
Who will know of this limbless stride?
For the man was just that -- human indeed,
and imperfect --
we never should attempt the impossible.

A Solemn Solute

Yet another post today. Desperation ensues after a long respite baneful of nothing. This post features another of the blogger's songs, a bit more peppy than the previous one, entitled 'A Solemn Solute' (but only the start of it is truely akin to 'solemn.') And the link:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=SagQ2VLEHpO

Please enjoy.

Arabian Mystique in G

Here's a link to a nice song made by the resident blogger. Its title is 'Arabian Mystique in G.' The end's a bit mushy, but it hopefully is still worth something of a quick listen.

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=SqA1s-jAP3M

A Poem About Pi

Here is an attempt at a subtley more mathematical poem, concerning the infinate property of the proportion pi.

Have you ever so quandered
at the sky's utter blueness,
or a pleasure's newness,
or other things of the like
throughout your merry day?

The answer, in all, is very simple you see:
it is the propotion of pi, and its
infinitesimal-decimal property!

3.14 may accost for that squeaky old door,
quite loud in the winter, but more softly groaning
throughout the blissful summer season, moanin.

. ...999999 will be the absolute blame for
why a mime so accurately mimes his mime,
when pulling a rope that does not exist,
or entrapping himself within a box in a jist.

It is . ...567's fault to be taken,
to explain to us all why dogs may pass to heaven,
while kittens and thier breed must remain on earth --
counterparts, indeed, as much as seekers of vengeance
at the double-sided dirk!

And we can call . ...5116 to the stand
for such a reprimand
as to why fully-grown branches may drop small sticks,
when they are quite capable, really, of supporting the lot.

These questions and more may be found within pi,
a woundrous number if ever any,
whose digits all of whom to espy
will never pass nor occur, in the infinitismal pi.

A Continued Apology: An Exponential Reader

There once was a small boy,
thought to be a clever reader
who could with his eyes scan a page,
with more haste than could a 'pecker but meager.

His room was quite cluttered,
with tomes of all sorts,
each page of which showed little exhaust,
from the boy's speedy eye contorts.

His mind was stationed properly,
for reading surely is no sin,
it was a fact, in fact,
that he had the Bible through.

He read so much that his eyes
unseeing and unsightly
were only of use
with the thickest of the spectacles
in all of Brightly.

He could scan two pages at once:
one with each eye,
and would do exceedingly well
for but a short amount of time.

And this was the difficulty aroused
in his reading perusals,
that his comprehendable reading
was lack of infinity.

He could not recall what book he had previously read,
nor whatever was within it,
or the author, nor the plot --
it simply was not in his head.

So a moral is apparent, now,
within these rhyming verses,
that one should never do,
what but with time rehearses.

An Apology for the Previous Installment

The author of the below poem dearly apologizes, for he only came to realize how rotton the poetry was after posting, but would be dubiously worse for removing the post altogether.

Hands -- An Unneccessary Poem

The resident blogger has taken an overlong respite, rather doing more reading and less writing than asked for a blog upkeeper; here, then, is some desperate attempt to reestablish a promising page.

Hands undoubtledly mark
to humans, all hark!
The mark of supreme superiority, you see,
for it is the thumb that makes superemecy.

Without a thumb, we may not pinch
that poor fellow on his birthday, who has just grown an inch;
and without our thumbs what will we do,
as we kneel upon a knee, and attempt to tie a shoe?

It is the thumb, without doubt,
that makes the heart humble and stout,
for without the thumb and the other four quintupled,
what have men to scuffle
the ruffled hair of a pooch or kitten?

Hands, oh hands! You are two, indeed,
the duet of the body in utter symmetry.
What shouled become of the race of man
without his necessitious hands?