Today's poems [2.7.07]

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There once was an old man of Esser,
Whose knowledge grew lesser and lesser,
It at last grew so small
He knew nothing at all, 
And now he's a college professor.

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.

The Very Very Untitled Poem

 To you I write this poem of nonsense
 My back is aching, my shoulders, tense
 My R.S.I. is D.O.A.
 Q.E.D. I.Q. O.K.
 My temper frayed, about to snap
 I am the king of talking crap
 I try to do the best I can
I`m worse than David Letterman!

 I watch TV to ease the friction
 Of this internet addiction
 But to my dismay, I find
 I cannot leave the net behind
 The world wide web calls to me
 Like a mermaid siren in the cyber-sea.
 
 Like watching "Twin Peaks", I`ve lost 
the plot
 I`ve been writing for weeks and this 
is all I got.
 With liquid refreshment as my 
inspiration
 Just cider that`s been through 
refrigeration
 Talkin` `bout my generation.

 Pen to paper. Fingers on the keyboard.
 Makes no difference. I`m still bored.
 Light goes on if you pull the cord
 Which payment plan can I afford?

 Eat ice cream with some toffee fudge
 "Robot" is the Czech word for "drudge".
 I, robot. I scream!

 Never mind. It doesn`t matter
 I eat and drink and just get fatter
 Excuse my ramblings. Now, I`ll cease.
 And leave you lot in peace ;~)

 © 1999 Peter Hughes


Sent by Pete Hughes

   Here I sit, I'm at a loss
   trying to shit out taco sauce.
   When it comes, I hope and pray,
   I don't blow my ass away.


  

There was an old harlot of Wick
Who was sucking a coal miner's prick
She said, "I don't mind
The coal dust and grime,
But the smell of your balls makes me sick."

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