Today's poems [10.2.10]
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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."
There once was a man from Kartomb
Who was exceedingly fond of the womb.
He thought nothing finer
Than the human vagina,
So he kept three of four in his room
A school marm from old Mississippi
Had a quim that was simply zippy.
The scholars all praised it
Till finally she raised it
To prices befitting a chippy.
Part 2 of 12
He could vary, with proper persuasion,
His fart to suit any occasion.
He could fart like a flute,
Like a lark, like a lute,
This highly fartistic Caucasian.
There was a young lassie named Phyllis
Was deflowered one night in a Willys.
Before they were through
Her spine was askew,
And I very much fear that it still is.
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