There was a young fellow of Kent 
            Whose prick was so long it was bent, 
                So to save himself trouble 
                He put it in double, 
            And instead of coming he went. 

A gardener named Kenneth McDeare
Likes plants more than women, we fear.
"He's hardly perennial."
Say folks who know Kenny well.
"He only comes up once a year" 

                    There was a young man named Cattell
                            
                    Who knew psychophysics so well,
                            That each time he shit
                            He'd stop, measure it---
                            
                    It's length, and it's breadth, and it's smell.
                            

Ode to Spam

                                      by Charlie Johnston



                              Oh SPAM!  Oh SPAM!  Gourmet delight!
                               My food by day, my dreams by night.
                              To carve, to slice, to dice you up -
                           pureed in a blender and sipped from a cup.

                              What shining deity from Olympus knelt
                              down to the earth and hog butt smelt?
                               Creating then man's eternal desire
                              for swine entrails congealed by fire.

                             On some corporate farm, a pig has died.
                              Eyes, tongue, and snout end up inside
                               that cube of SPAM hidden in the can
                                I now hold in my trembling hand.

                               More than mere food, SPAM is for me
                           a hedonistic expression of gluttonous glee.
                         Mottled with pork fat, the pink cube engrosses.
                          My mouth takes it in, my intestine disposes.

                           Long have my arteries clogged to the sound
                          of sizzling SPAM when there's no one around -
                             furtively chewing or swallowing whole.
                            Triple bypass by forty, my medical goal.

                      Other processed meat products I've tried or declined
                        Vienna Sausages, Treet, even pig's feet in brine.
                           Though each may be tasty in different ways,
                             none matches SPAM for gelatinous glaze.

                               That glistening pinkness beckons me
                                   with gristle, fat, and BHT.
                            Oh Spam, my Spam - the taste, the smell -
                              The sacred meat product from Hormel.

A certain young fellow named Dick
Liked to feel a girl's hand on his prick.
He taught them to fool
With his rigid old tool
Till the cream shot out, white and thick.