Mr. Icknicky's Wild Run Poem by Richard D Remler

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Mr. Icknicky has grown quite picky
Of those odd little fixings Mrs. Icknicky may fix.

She's clever as ever, and always in a hurry,
Looking for some strange concoction to mix.

A burled egg here.Half a feather, or two.
An old box of line.And a nobble ~quite new.

A big box of marbles, and some old possum tea.
A bag full of flour, and one speckled pea.

An old gooey hair that she found in her nose.
And a cinnamon spickel.Yup, at least three of those.

A greasy banana as black as can be,
And a spotchel of splotch from a potpourri tree.

And she'd add some hair from a toe she was soaking today.
And she'd wisk it together if she had her way!

And it's all sort of sad, how he hobbles, right sore,
A running and hiding just like before.

On the roof, under leaves, or deep in the creek,
Where he hid like a pro for the best part of a week.

When Mrs. Icknicky baked him a schnidd,
Baked plumb full of acorns, the poor feller hid!

You should've seen the man run, up the hill, down the road.
Limbering out like a limbergin toad...

As if his very life depended that he
Run, run, and run 'til he was safe as can be!

He won't let her know that it's icky as ick.
He won't even hint that the smell makes him sick.

He'll just hid way, way out in a cocoa-fig tree,
Until August the Second at two-twenty three,

When he'll step through the door promptly needing a bath,
Safe and aware he's avoided her wrath.

And all will be well for a week, maybe three.
All will be peaceful, and quiet.You'll see!

The hushing of crickets just saying hello
In the tall, tall, tall grass where the niddlebin grow,

And the fireflies drifting in through the tall willow grove
As embers snap, spap in the cast iron stove.

All will be well for a week and a day,
As he lazily watches the raccoons at play.

And the hummingbirds wander from blossom to clover,
Until the wind whispers that morning is over.

That's when Mrs. Icknicky will start wondering why
She ain't made a batch of her panhygrous pie...

And she'll head into the kitchen where the mixing bowls hide,
And she'll ever so deftly add fixings inside.

An egg, and a crusty old splegch of a splich.
An iggle of sugar that makes her thumb itch.

Like a Scientist, Mad, hard at work in her lab,
She'll add a this, and a that.Just a touch.Just a dab.

Until Mr. Icknicky senses doom, Just like today...
And ever so wisely runs clear away.

Copyright © MMXV Richard D. Remler


**A Children's Tale**