Today's poems [1.17.09]
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We once had a clerk named Pyle
Who had an affair with our file.
'Twas strewn askew
From K through Q,
And the P's were all sticky and vile.
The Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Everybody felt shitty,
Even the mouse.
With mom at the whore house
And Dad smoking grass,
I'd just settled down
For a nice piece of ass.
When out on the lawn
I heard such a clatter,
I sprung from my piece
To see what was the matter.
Then out on the lawn,
I saw a big dick,
And I knew in a moment
That it must be Saint Nick.
He came down the chimney
Like a bat out of hell,
And I knew right away
That the fucker had fell.
He filled all our stockings
With pretzels and beer,
And a big rubber dick
For my brother, the queer.
He rose up the chimney
With a thunderous fart;
The damn son of a bitch
Blew the chimney apart!
He swore and he cursed,
As he rode out of sight,
"Piss on you all,
And have a hell of a night!"
There was a young fellow named Bream
Who never had dreamt a wet dream,
For when lacking a whore
He'd just bore out the core
Of an apple an fuck it through cream.
To quote, or not to quote;
That is the question.
Whether 'tis cluefuller on the Net to re-post
The tos and fros of diverse opinions,
Or to take arms against such attributions,
And, by excision, end them.
To trim, to snip:
No more, and by a snip to say we end
The widows and the thousand orphaned words
That posts are heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To trim, to snip.
To snip, perchance too much. Ay, there's the rub,
For in that joyous chop the sense we lose
When we have taken out the fluff and dross
Must give us pause.
There's the factor
That makes calamity of so long threads.
For who would bear the tos and fros of chat,
Th' cascader's screed, the geek's anality,
The pain of misplacÚd tags, the reeking trolls,
The cliquiness of in-jokes, and the flames
That studied satire draws from clueless fools,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a mere bobbit?
Who would cudgel brains
To write a piece, witty and thoughtful too,
But that the hope of making people laugh,
That blessÚd gift of humour from whose touch
No traveller is safe, spurs on the soul,
And makes us rather bear those ills we read
Than carve them up,and mayhap lose the joke?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And Usenet posters of great sense and content
In this confusion quote more than they should,
And lose the name of Clueful.
Read you, now,
The fair Emilia!  Nymph, in thy reminders
Be all my posts remembered.
There once was a old man from Norway -
who cussed as he sat in a doorway-
the door smacked him flat-
and he yelled "what was that"?
that disgruntled old man from Norway!
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