Today's poems [8.8.08]
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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 it was said to wash off in the rain.
There was a young fellow named Lancelot
Whom his neighbors all looked on askance a lot.
Whenever he'd pass
A presentable lass,
The front of his pants would advance a lot.
It's a helluva fix that we're in
When the geographical spread of the urge to sin
Causes juvenile delinquency
With increasing frequency
By the Army, the Navy, and Errol Flynn.
Cleopatra while helping to pump
Ground out such a furious bump,
That Antony's dick
Snapped off like a stick
And left him to pump with a stump.
"Remind me, dear," said Sir John Keith,
"As soon as I've finished my teeth,
To take down this glass
And examine my ass
From behind---and of course from beneath."
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