Today's poems [4.10.09]
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Holy mother full of grace,
Bless my boyfriends sexy face,
keep him from the girls I hate,
For we were meant to be soul mates,
Sent by L&S
He was great in the Christmas Cantata,
He could double-stop fart The Toccata,
He'd boom from his ass
Bach's B-Minor Mass,
And in counterpoint, La Traviata.
There was a young lady named Shriver
Who was screwed in the ass by the driver,
And when she complained
He said, "Sorry you were pained,"
And gave her a fiver to bribe her.
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.
A damsel who lives at the Springs
Had her maidenhead ripped into strings
By a hideous Kurd,
And now, she averred,
"When the wind blows through it, it sings."
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