Geoffrey Chaucer; born circa 1342/1343. Certainly a long since dead, versed Limey. Versed in poetry, literally. An author too. Chaucer’s largest claim to fame is his creation: The Canterbury Tales. I have never read it, and probably never will. Chaucer is also responsible for introducing Rhyme Royal to the English language. And like most things English, Rhyme Royal was stolen from elsewhere – possibly the French.
Rhyme Royal poetry consists of seven, ten syllable lines in the rhyme form of ABABBCC, of which can be arranged by means of a tercet and two couplets: ABA BB CC, or a quatrain and a tercet: ABAB BCC.
As any regular reader might know; ENDPOLITICIANS.COM on occasion has a fondness for publishing original poetry. Not only such, but ENDPOLITICIANS.COM has come to the uplifting and enlightened realization that European “royalty” most certainly are members of the pinnacle of genocidal sleaze, and simultaneous defining classification to be definitively known as scum of the earth. Rhyme Royal poetry and CR doth collide. Will soap and tastebuds formatively meet? We shall see, oh we shall see. Perhaps a dirty limerick I do promise thee!
Brother and sister it does matter not,
Grasping in the shadows, tis time to play.
To seize and hold the thickness of their plot.
A royal reach around in manner gay,
Drag queen has swallowed a kinship parfait.
As goes the crown driven by way of taste,
Gene pool diverse would be a drowning waste.
Staking a Claim
So goes the way of the peasantry head,
Traveling in circles about town square.
Metaphorical leeches drain the bled.
That upper crust does gloatingly say cake,
A recipe for leavening, partake.
People united, admixture decrees,
Fire up those stakes to a thousand degrees!
Rippled in Time
An infection on land royal troops surge,
Leaving a trail violating of eye,
Murdering outright and opium scourge,
Coined in refinement hammering countless die.
Fast forward in ages carrying the lie,
Crimson rivers flow remarking the stain,
Forgetting Canton, welcome to UKraine.
Fruit of the Groom
Inherit the seat of the pants cover
Alls well and good to go history’s throne.
Down in the dumps a rear exit lover
Of soothsayers chime to bury the bone,
Anyone but infants do it alone.
Gaze in the quicksilver sees not the fool,
Heaven almighty he’s grooming the stool.
Enough of those “royal” fuck-tard freaks for now. Though here is a bonus entry for what anyone of enlightenment would associate as guilt by association. Commie, commie, commie, commie, commie chameleon – you come and go, you come and go. Dedicated to – aw, he knows who.
He fools himself and so thinks to ring true.
A stab in the back by agency means,
Though aware of his front, aha, fuck you.
Mindset of victim arise not past teen,
Harmer of children and women his being.
Surpassing of Judas with no mind strife,
Grasping at straws, Hell defines his next life.
Gaius Valerius Catullus; circa 84BCE to 54BCE, was a Roman Republic poet, of whom I accidentally discovered a short time ago after having seen one of his books for sale on an online auction. Soap and tastebuds do formally meet in Catullus’ poetry world! Catullus’ father was a friend and host of Julius Caesar, and Catullus’ poetry does lambaste Julius Caesar, to the point of Caesar having claimed that it would be of historical importance, and not in a positive light. As history goes, after delivering an apology to Julius Caesar, Catullus was able to sit down and have dinner with Julius Caesar, his target of much poetic ridicule.
Catullus’ poetry could be extremely rude and crude, so to finish of this poetry special, here is one of Catullus’ shorter and semi-crude helpings. Enjoy the 2000+ year old treasure!
Excellent Veranus, and you my Fabullus,
aides to Piso, a useless brigade,
with backpacks ready and lightly equipped,
how are you doing?
Have you suffered enough hunger
cold and discouragement
with that guy?
Did your gamble show a bit of profit
on the books, as it did for me
who followed my leader
and counted experience
as a bit of return?
Long and slow you fucked me
in the mouth face up
with all that cock!
But as far as I can see
you two are in the same mess
since you are stuffed with
a prick no smaller.
Find rich friends!
May the gods and goddesses
give you lots of trouble,
to Romulus and Remus!
Oh right, that dirty limerick that was promised. May as well make it a “royal” rhyme.
Speaking of a drunk in Balmoral,
His booze of choice distilled via floral,
Manner not mild,
Molester of child,
No doubt great buds with Josep Borell.
C to the R