There was a young fellow from Florida
Who liked a friend's wife, so he borrowed her.
When they got into bed,
He cried, "God strike me dead,
This ain't a cunt, it's a corridor!" 

To quote, or not to quote;
That is the question.
Whether 'tis cluefuller on the Net to re-post
The tos and fros of diverse opinions,
Or to take arms against such attributions,
And, by excision, end them. 
                             To trim, to snip:
No more, and by a snip to say we end
The widows and the thousand orphaned words
That posts are heir to,  'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
                        To trim, to snip.
To snip, perchance too much. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that joyous chop the sense we lose
When we have taken out the fluff and dross
Must give us pause. 
                     There's the factor
That makes calamity of so long threads.
For who would bear the tos and fros of chat,
Th' cascader's screed, the geek's anality,
The pain of misplacéd tags, the reeking trolls,
The cliquiness of in-jokes, and the flames
That studied satire draws from clueless fools,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a mere bobbit?
                     Who would cudgel brains
To write a piece, witty and thoughtful too,
But that the hope of making people laugh,
That blesséd gift of humour from whose touch
No traveller is safe, spurs on the soul,
And makes us rather bear those ills we read
Than carve them up,and mayhap lose the joke?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And Usenet posters of great sense and content
In this confusion quote more than they should,
And lose the name of Clueful.
                               Read you, now,
The fair Emilia! [1]  Nymph, in thy reminders
Be all my posts remembered.

Smoking reefer didn't cause him to fail, 
               And that Lewinsky affair is a tale. 
                    These two things they will name, 
                    When the defense makes its claim, 
               That neither Bill nor the girl did inhale. 

He laid her on the table
So white clean and bare.
His forehead wet with beads of sweat
He rubbed her here and there.
He touched her neck and then her breast
And then drooling felt her thigh.
The slit was wet and all was set,
He gave a joyous cry.
The hole was wide... he looked inside
All was dark and murky.
He rubbed his hands and stretched his arms...

And then he stuffed the turkey.

All those Monica limericks are lame, 
               But I guess we have Clinton to blame. 
                    Had he fucked just his wife, 
                    For once in his life, 
               Or at least missed the dress when he came.