If the river was made of whiskey,
And I a diving duck,
I'd swim down to the bottom,
And drink myself back up.

Sent by Amy

Father



 Father, don't I have to work?
 No, my lucky son.
 We're living now on Easy Street,
 on dough from Washington.

 We've left things up to Uncle Sam,
 so don't get exercised.
 No-one has to give a damn.
 We've all been subsidized!

 But if Sam treats us all so well,
 and feeds us milk and honey,
 please, Daddy, tell me what the hell
 He's going to do for money?

 Don't worry, Bub, there's not a hitch
 in this-here noble plan.
 We merely soak the Filthy Rich
 and feed the Common Man.

 But, Daddy, won't there come a time
 when they'll run out of cash?
 And we'll have left, then, not a dime
 and things will go to smash?!

 My faith in you is shrinking, son,
 you nosey little brat!
 You do too damned much thinking, son,
 to be a Democrat!

There once was a guy named Dave,
Who dug up a whore from a grave.
She was moldy and shitty,
And only had one titty
But look at the money he saved!

There once was a writer named Twain
Who had a peculiar stain
Surrounding the head
Of his prick, it was red
And it was said to wash off in the rain. 

               There was a fat man from Rangoon 
               Whose prick was mich like a balloon. 
                    He tried hard to ride her 
                    And when finally inside her 
               She thought she was pregnant too soon.