Rachelyn farrell

Research Scientist
Narrative Intelligence Lab
University of Kentucky
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Scrabble Zongs

A Zong

(memorizing Z words for Scrabble)

You idolize, you seize the prize,
you vocalize of vitalizing zombies.
It’s amazing how lazily you breeze the maze,
you crazy lizards zooming through the kudzu.
Raze the roof with jazz kazoo,
you klutzes never sneezing to amaze me.
Waltzing with a dozen zebras;
Tis a zany thing to do,
but there’s zero else as ritzy at the zoo.
Keep your gaze at the horizon;
Be exorcized, or be blazed by my bazooka.
Blitzed into your hazy daze,
you doze into your booze.
It’s cozy here in these bizarre azaleas.

A Xong

(a logical followup)

Excuse me as I expunge an excrement, I know it’s extra rude,
But this excess is exasperating, and excruciating to exude.
Please don’t get excited when I express my exultation.
If I exclaim, “I exalt this excretion!” – that may be an exaggeration.

And please do not examine it; though it’s extraordinary, I expect.
But it’s just an example of the exquisite extractions I can dexterously eject.
Why I’m exploiting this experience is not exactly plain.
I’m experimenting, exposing my exports… I cannot explicitly explain.

This is an exoteric piece, I just had to externalize.
But to expedite the flux, I will expire that exercise.
Ixnay on the excerpt there, I’ll exchange it for this tale,
Take a Xanax for my anxiety, relax and then exhale.

You may think that I’m explosive and I think outside the box,
But from Xmas to the crucifix, I’m extremely orthodox.
Except – I’m excommunicated, and I’m lucky I still exist.
See, I had a little mix-up with a sexy exorcist…

We took an exotic excursion on an excellent equinox.
We went to explore the exosphere, and that’s not a paradox.
When we returned to Oxford, we were exiled, yes, expelled!
And quite transfixed by the six-six-six that damned us both to hell.

My exorcist was an extrovert who had claimed to be an expert,
But because of his hoax we joined the exodus, exiting the earth.
The crux of the story is not complex, it’s a simple axiom:
Expecially regarding oxygen, don’t exceed the maximum!


A Qong

(I should’ve quit before this one!)

Once upon a quiet quag
Under a quart of maqui
A squab was squatting, with quite a qualm
Quailing, squegging, rocking.

She quaffed some aqua to quench the qualm
Then queried to all of her quins:
“Won’t you quit that croquet game?
you’re acting like a bunch of quids!”

The quint, that is: the queen, the quean,
The quey, the squaw, and the squab
Were queer quintuplets, that’s a quack,
A roque and quoit squad.

The queen, qua the queerest one
Quipped back at the squibbing squab,
“Quit your piquing, you quirky quale,
or we’ll quoin you in a quod.”

The squab took her qurshes and flew away
On a quest to find a quern or quay.
and her quins just queued and quoted the squab
While listening to all the SQUAWK!

A Stong

(extending the challenge to use as many “st” sounds as possible, and to not write something really depressing and shitty. Whoops!)

I’m standing still by the whistling stream,
studying the stars,
and staring straight through the steady storm,
aghast at the vast distance.
This instant of existence
must be my last,
lest my stress persists.
I’m stripped of strength, I can no longer resist.
I insist
that this is best.
For I am lost until I rest.

A Thong

(ending on a good one)

Filthy authors, authorizing
thugs and meth and brothels,
enthralling youth with wealth and leather,
thin, with thighs that thongs untether,
though they’d rather
play the zither,
think, and bathe,
and thank their mothers,
and further their own growth in mathematics.

The thing is, youth are thorough, ruthless thieves
of filth and loathsome clothing,
thirteenth birthdays,
goth and deathly,
atheist and inauthentic,
not athletic, or otherwise worthy
of the thousands of things they slather on
and lather in,
and hither and thither, a swath gets on their teeth.
Their pathetic pathos
leaves them loath to breathe.

Therefore gather all together,
fathers, authors, faithful brothers:
think, rethink, and thumb your thick thesaurus.
Then stealthily your pithy words
will slither through with soothing warmth,
and put forth
what the soothsayer sooth-saith.
Then, thunderstruck, the youth will laugh,
and, rathe to take another path,
throw away their thongs and things of leather.
(The meth, though, is another thing altogether!)