The Kaboodle

Sometimes I plods. Sometimes I stops.
I’m a piece of gods. I’m walking. I’m drops.

I lose a little ground again.
Fall, impounded, anywhen.

See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
A stone that floats until I sinks.

I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit.  My bad; I’m doodle

on a napkin all greases and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.

Sharp, isn’t it?  I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.

Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.

Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Enough this train of sticky plops;

let me be, you big reply.
I’ll smile and weave a bit of die.