It's Crowded On The Balcony
Read the original posts at DQN.
"It's Crowded On The Balcony" is a poem written by Bun von Bunnington between the 6720th and the 6741st of September 1993. It is generally accepted to be the greatest poem in existence.
Whereupon ruminating waters there oft reclin'd a young boy
But it turned out that she had a penis
The world in her eyes, so blue and wet
The eyes in her wet, so worldly and blue
D.Q.N. was him!?
I scaled the seas in search of some sordid secret
I can't wait to bomb some dodongoes
A thousand lines were drawn in the sand
Alas, cruel fate!
Extreme prejudice in all dimensions; thoughtful: shameful? Powerful
Twisting, tearing, writhing, screaming .
So soft, so delicate - but no longer!
'Silent as the sea siphoning seals, splendid as the surf, surely you are joking, my dear professor, sir?'
And so it goes
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Beneath the lunar orb, together with a young girl
A secret in a bottle of marmalade
The mind silenced, the body speaks: and quite loudly
Window degree wife
Healing, uniting, calming, silently
Her tender lips parted and those familiar words came out:
Life! Prosperity! Wealth!
Like a mitten blown away by the wind
Dozing for millennia, a brazen bolt of mittens arcs with regal restitution
I want to be a computer!
He thrusts his mitts against her bust
Unknowing of the inherent inferiority of gloves
Till death do us part
Glistening, warm, dripping and long.
Yesterday and today and tomorrow as well
The world of memories we see is ghosts trapped in the flesh
Soggy noodles taste like a spittle
Standing in this puddle of piddle
The world spins faster once we've all lain down to die
Some minutes seem longer than others
I spend them, mostly, under the covers
Forever burnt into my retinas
The above structure is not, in fact, how the commissioner of the poem requested. The original would have been an estimated 61 lines long, more than a third of which would have been repetitions. Certain Zionist radicals demanded that the poem be restructured entirely into stanzas of only four lines each! There was an almost immediate backlash of Jewish fundamentalists who resolutely stuck with >>1's divine guidance. The final version is an unholy amalgamation of the two ideals, leaving tensions strained across the Elitist Superstructure.