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Today's poems [6.13.06]

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                  A Poem Written by an African Shakespeare
     
   
 Dear white fella
 Couple things you should know
 When I born, I black
 When I grow up, I black
 When I go in sun, I black
 When I cold, I black
 When I scared, I black
 When I sick, I black
 And when I die, I still black.

 You white fella
 When you born, you pink
 When you grow up, you white
 When you go in sun, you red
 When you cold, you blue
 When you scared, you yellow
 When you sick, you green
 And when you die, you grey.
 And you have the cheek to call me colored?????  


1.   Vote:    Category: Ethnic Send this poem to a friend




SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS PORNOGRAPHY

We've socially conscious biography,
Esthetics, and social geography.
    Today every field
    Boasts its Marxian yield,
So now there's class-conscious pornography.

Oh, the worker is nobody's fool,
For by rights he's the man with the tool.
    His ponderous prick'll
    Arise with the sickle,
And bugger the Fascists who rule.

Miss de Vaughan was a maker of panties
For all girls from subdebs to grand-aunties.
    Her very best ad
    Was herself, lightly clad
In her three-ninety-five silken scanties.

So this wench is a capitalist,
She's our villain and ought to be hissed.
    But she's lush and she's plump,
    And a glimpse of her rump
Would teach Marx that there's something he's missed.

Now de Vaughan had resolved on a lock-out
To give Communist Labor the knock-out.
    She said, 'Fuck the foul fools.'
    (She'd attended good schools),
And took a fresh bottle of Hock out.

Joseph Smith was a sturdy longshoreman
(And an eminent amateur whoreman).
    Just to be sympathetic
    He grew peripatetic,
'Til his picketing irked de Vaughan's doorman.

For this lout was a scab born and bred,
Who fainted whene'er he saw red:
    In distress he reported,
    But she only retorted,
`Run home and hide under your bed.'

For her plans were peculiar and wicked,
As she thought, `He's a man, if a picket.'
    She lured him inside
    And insidiously plied
The prick of the picket to lick it.

Joe's rod was stiff as a rail,
But he couldn't let principles fail.
    `You degenerate bitch,
    That's a trick of the rich;
But the people prefer honest tail.

`You may tickle the cocks and the vanities
Of the rich men who purchase your scanities,
    But the proud People's front
    Calls for sound hairy cunt.
So it's down with de Vaughan's panty-wanities.'

He picked a soft couch in her office,
And tore off her pants and ripped off his.
    Then he showed her the rod
    Marks the difference, by God,
Between what a man and a toff is.

Now our Joe was the first proletarian
Who had filled with his sperm the ovarian
    Recess of de Vaughan,
    Which had sheltered the spawn
Of unnumbered Fascists, all Aryan.

Next day his friends said, `You've been soaring,
You're dead on your feet. Were you whoring?'
    He replied, `Starving masses
    Mean more than plump asses.
Last night from within I was boring.'

And de Vaughan thought her troubles were over,
Her picket had left (to recover),
    But he'd furnished her womb
    With incipient bloom:
A fact she had yet to discover.

So after nine months, to the day,
The employer in labor pains lay.
    As the boy hove in sight
    He yelled, `WORKERS UNITE!'
And the doctors all fainted away.

The moral of this is, my child,
By rich promises don't be beguiled.
    Remember that workers
    Are eminent firkers,
And go left, if you must be defiled.

2.   Vote:    Category: Politics Send this poem to a friend




Brian is an idiot!
 And everybody knows
 When he goes to bed at night
 He puts polish on his toes

 Brian is so stupid
 He sucks himself all day
 And when I went to a farm once
 And saw him eating hay

 Brian is a numbskull
 He loves a girl named Jade
 And he wanted her to kiss him so much
 Once he even paid



3.   Vote:    Category: Men Send this poem to a friend




There was a young Georgian named Lynd 
               Who'd never in all his life sinned, 
                    For whenever he'd start 
                    He'd be jarred by a fart, 
               And his semen was gone with the wind. 

4.   Vote:    Category: Men Send this poem to a friend




There was a young rascal named James, 
            Who liked to play terrible games, 
                He lit up the front 
                Of his Grandmother's cunt 
            And laughed as she pissed through the flames! 

5.   Vote:    Category: Ouch! Send this poem to a friend



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