Blob Of Mud

 Blobs of mud

shouldn't thud.

They squash and squish

and squirm and squelch

like blood or cud

but shouldn't thud.

Blobs of mud

rise from sludge!

Two arms and legs

dripping, dull

torso, skull,

with groans and moans

it pulls from mire

each limb higher

free from earth

and of it;

mud.

Sensing lights

and life of town,

it lifts a foot and

puts it down -

makes its way

due west with haste;

cruising, oozing, losing

paste.

People peer and leer

and glare and stare!

They know not what

to make of mud-like

creature,

schmoozing there.

They poke with sticks.

throw bricks.

One kicks

and loses shoe

in blob of mud.

It sticks -

the schmuck!

It's stuck,

and off he hops

with leg-like limb

held high and dry.

Amorphous blob!

They gape

at shapeless formless

unformed shape.

Semisolid viscous lava,

facial java,

balaclava.

Then rises sun.

The warmth of day

heats the clay.

With every ray,

weapons of the angry mob,

each sobbing yob

and stone they lob

no longer throbs.

The outer crust

of muddy blob's

now hard like rust!

Rebounds the blow

of each foe's toe.

Each crack and whack

just bounces back!

One sharp rock 

cuts a cow -

a harmless sow -

in pastures new

lays dead now too.

But newfound stony shield

hinders motion -

doesn't yield!

Epidermis,

thicker more,

inch by inch

pervades the core

until at last

the blob of mud

a statue stone!

One last push

by boorish mob

and effigy upends

with thud

in midst

of squashy cud 

and squishy blood.

© Chris R Young 2020 All rights reserved.