Today's poems [3.9.08]

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

There was a young man from Nantasket
Who screwed a dead whore in a casket.
He allowed 'twas no vice,
But thought it was nice,
For she needed no money, nor'd ask it.

Part 12 of 12
   
                    His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
                            
                    Where they buried the rest of our farter,
                            With a gravestone of turds
                            Inscribed with the words:
                            
                    "To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."
                            

A wonderful fish is the flea, 
            He bores and he bites on me. 
                I would love, indeed, 
                To watch him feed, 
            But he bites me where I cannot see. 

There was a young man from St. Paul
               Who had really no scruples at all---
                    He would fart when he'd talk,
                    And shit when he'd walk,
               And at night throw it over the wall.

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