Said the man with beef between his teeth

So I avoided his nose and looked to his feet

Oh No! what are those!!

His toes looks like retired crows

With missing feathers and shit

If it was an endangered species it might have been lit

So I elevated my gaze up to his waist

Wait, is that toothpaste?

How did it get from his face to that space?

Do I want to know?

Hell to the no!

In the end I decided to look at the top of his head

Really is that a fly? Is it dead!?

Man I an done

I am going to laugh instead.

HI

Actully I meant to say bye

I am going to fly

I kinda wanna lie

That I am actully sly

But GOODBYE!

Don't cry from your eye

It will become dry

When I come back don't be different

Or I will die

Maybe I should try to spy

On you

Sorry! I forgot your name guy!

Well anyway! GOODBYE!

'

Three bucks is the prize,

Someone gets the pride,

Years of entries,

Who can choose?

Writers spend their afternoon,

Spinning words in mental looms,

Happy thoughts or impending doom,

Serious is just so gloom,

I look to another moon,

It needs to happen soon,

Rule of threes spins my runes,

Next stop is a successful boom.

Seriously devoted to eating giant banana pancakes, researching homemade rabbit costumes, and thinking about the faces people make during sex. Seriously engaged in irreverent bathroom stall philosophy, in leaving drunk voicemails, and watching awkward flirting in the wild. Seriously invested in hanging by my fingers from this tumbling little planet as it zooms through the cosmos. Serious is as serious does, after all. 

As interrogation rooms go, this had to be the worst Kerridge had seen. He could hear the officers chatter through the thin glass of an obviously two-way mirror. The chair was appreciably uncomfortable. That was a good touch, and so was the loud infrequent drip from a leaky pipe. The table they had cuffed him to was paper thin, and so was the door.

“I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”

“See, this guy gets it.” Kerridge gestured to the cop, whose flop sweat gave away the fear he hadn’t been trained to hide.

The second man slammed his hands onto the desk, either side of Kerridge, leaning in with a lit cigarette pursed between dry lips, and a stoney glare. “You better start taking it seriously, kid. Understand the situation you're in. If you can.”

“Kid? Not all of us aged twenty years in the forties. We’re the same age.”

He leaned closer and ground his jaw. The danger would have seemed real, if flop-sweat hadn’t broken the illusion, by being afraid of Kerridge. “Why don’t you try being civilised? Never know, it might work.” Kerridge smiled.

A rumble of chatter came from behind the mirror, and Stoneface sucked in smoke between gritted teeth before, as expected, he pulled away.

“Civilised. Pah. What, you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kerridge was rewarded with a seething glare that told him he hit his mark.

“Out.” Stoneface told his partner. Kerridge was worried, until the angry cop fell in behind Flop-Sweat, out the door.

“You shoulda hit me.”

Stoneface stopped in the doorway, puffed out a long stream of smoke.

“Woulda if I coulda, kid.”

He gave his best attempt at a non-hostile grin, then slammed the door behind him.

Kerridge liked that one. Just not as a cop.

Five minutes later, Flop-Sweat came back, saying nothing, but placing down a cup of black steaming liquid.

“He couldn’t even bring it to me himself, eh?” Kerridge asked, smiling towards the mirror, knowingly.

Why am I so serious about being an angel

For one reason only it a joke to everyone

No one know how much angels joke around

Let me tell you they are always partying

I will never believe they spayed cheese whiz in my perfectly good hair

Angels are wild and angry sometimes

We let loose our crazy sides sometimes

Even I do too

However, I rather take my guardian angels duties seriously

That unless someone makes me really mad

Then someone better hold my halo

Then run away from me

I go full bat crazy when I get mad

Why so serious? Please tell me you did not just ask that to me.

Why would you expect me to be anything else? Give me something to smile about, and then maybe we can have a conversation.

Although given the fact that entries for this challenge do not close anytime soon, I am guessing you will have a difficult time with this.

"Why so serious?", they ask.

I have shared so many reasons,

Told too many excuses,

But I have more.

Which one to choose, 

After all,

This is my big decision for the day.

Maybe I'll make something up,

Like I always do...

I'm moving,

My brother was hit by a car,

My parents are splitting up... 

Or I could tell the truth...

I'm terminal,

I have two months to live, 

And I'm spending it at work,

With you people who don't care enough to ask if I'm okay.

But...

"I'll be fine",

I say,

In response to the question,

But not the one they asked.

Who is the man that sits softly in the night?

What is this feeling that stirs inside?

Where did my soul get permission to dance?

When will it propel me forth to act?

Why must I suffer this passion inside?

How can I fight it? Can I deny it?

The passion inside stirs forth, a volcano.

My body propels forward.

While my mind’s screaming “hell no!”

Deep inside I can’t fight it

I must love and let go. I can’t deny it.

Passion is nature’s distraction.

Winston Thaddeus Montgomery III adjusted his bow tie (a particularly distinguished paisley number from 1962) and scowled at his reflection. The wrinkles around his mouth had arranged themselves into what he deemed a most scholarly formation, like ancient manuscripts folded by time. His salt-and-pepper mustache – meticulously trimmed to exactly 3.7 centimeters – twitched with disapproval.

"Why so serious?" his neighbor's child had asked him that morning, while bouncing a rubber ball against his prized hydrangeas.

The audacity! The sheer impertinence! Did the small human not understand that life itself was a solemn undertaking? That every moment required the utmost gravity? Harold had spent forty-three years perfecting his signature expression of profound contemplation (eyebrows raised precisely 0.8 centimeters, forehead creased in exactly three parallel lines).

He smoothed his tweed jacket (authentic Harris Tweed, acquired during the Great Liquidation Sale of '98) and practiced his most dignified harrumph. The sound resonated with just the right mixture of authority and weltschmerz – a skill he'd mastered during his tenure as Assistant Deputy Library Chairman (temporary).

"Serious?" he muttered to his reflection. "I'll have you know that I maintain exactly the appropriate level of gravitas for a man of my station." The fact that said station primarily involved cataloging his extensive collection of Victorian butter knives was, he felt, entirely irrelevant.

His cat, Lord Wellington IV, yawned from his perch atop a stack of unread philosophical treatises, clearly appreciating the weight of the moment. Or perhaps he was just hungry. It was so difficult to tell with cats – they possessed nearly as much natural dignity as Harold himself.

Almost.