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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