Go Ahead and Say It -- "Obsessive-Compulsive, Much?"
I never should have let myself read that web-page on Romanesque and Gothic church architecture yesterday, because this morning I can't concentrate on my sermon until I get this re-write off my chest. I think I need serious psychiatric help to get over this compulsion to make horrible rhymes.
In medieval times, prayerful reflections
Issued in immense erections --
Cathedrals of a Gothic bent,
Whose glories could not stand unaided
(No pre-stressed concrete, steel up-graded).
All that bulge and thrust once concentrated
On groined vaults must be dissipated,
So flying buttresses they did invent --
An external rafter.
In Sunnydale, a Slayer's volition
To romance oft looks like demolition,
As walls and relationships all come crashing down.
Buffy's first love suffered from problems thorny
(A world imperilled from getting horny).
Her mom told Angel they had no future --
Different destinies they could not suture.
So Angel decided he must leave town,
Lest he shaft her.
Buffy's next love could not bear the stresses
Of being less than super. Thus, the messes
In her love-wake soon accumulated.
Only over her dead body, Buffy swore,
Would Spike become her paramour.
Well, never say "Never," if you're the Slayer!
Buffy slept with Spike, but her mood became grayer --
No soul-less soul-mate could be contemplated,
No notion dafter!
But fanfic authors have substantial leverage --
From lemons they would make sweet beverage,
And from canon wreckage they can raise an abbey.
"If one vampire's not enough," they say,
"To let the Slayer relax and play,
Then why not meld the shattered pieces,
As peanut butter and chocolate do make a Reese's?
To make Buffy threesome-glad, not twosome-crabby,
We may have to draft her."
Now, Spike's an aerodynamic vamp,
In spite of his troubles with 'muscle cramp,'
And a jolly flying buttress he could be.
Like Jericho in reverse, his 'horn'
Could re-build walls that once were torn.
Bring Angel and Buffy back together,
With Spike to be their ground-ward tether,
That all three might live and love semi-happily
Ever after.
Yes, I'm a sick, sick puppy. But I'm determined to merit the title of bloody awful poet, someday, even if it drives my friends nuts in the meantime.
In medieval times, prayerful reflections
Issued in immense erections --
Cathedrals of a Gothic bent,
Whose glories could not stand unaided
(No pre-stressed concrete, steel up-graded).
All that bulge and thrust once concentrated
On groined vaults must be dissipated,
So flying buttresses they did invent --
An external rafter.
In Sunnydale, a Slayer's volition
To romance oft looks like demolition,
As walls and relationships all come crashing down.
Buffy's first love suffered from problems thorny
(A world imperilled from getting horny).
Her mom told Angel they had no future --
Different destinies they could not suture.
So Angel decided he must leave town,
Lest he shaft her.
Buffy's next love could not bear the stresses
Of being less than super. Thus, the messes
In her love-wake soon accumulated.
Only over her dead body, Buffy swore,
Would Spike become her paramour.
Well, never say "Never," if you're the Slayer!
Buffy slept with Spike, but her mood became grayer --
No soul-less soul-mate could be contemplated,
No notion dafter!
But fanfic authors have substantial leverage --
From lemons they would make sweet beverage,
And from canon wreckage they can raise an abbey.
"If one vampire's not enough," they say,
"To let the Slayer relax and play,
Then why not meld the shattered pieces,
As peanut butter and chocolate do make a Reese's?
To make Buffy threesome-glad, not twosome-crabby,
We may have to draft her."
Now, Spike's an aerodynamic vamp,
In spite of his troubles with 'muscle cramp,'
And a jolly flying buttress he could be.
Like Jericho in reverse, his 'horn'
Could re-build walls that once were torn.
Bring Angel and Buffy back together,
With Spike to be their ground-ward tether,
That all three might live and love semi-happily
Ever after.
Yes, I'm a sick, sick puppy. But I'm determined to merit the title of bloody awful poet, someday, even if it drives my friends nuts in the meantime.