Today's poems [2.1.13]
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There once was a woman from Bombay,
She carved a pussy out of clay.
The heat from his dick,
Turned it into brick,
And ripped all his foreskin away.
I was desperate, I was weary
I prayed for holy guidance from above
I thought she came to lead me through the darkness
But then I felt a probing rubber glove...
BURN, SUBURBS, BURN
Burn rubber baby suburb baby, burn!
The gluttonous gluteus maximus
No new tax for us
Deep fat fry, suburb blubber baby-butt, cry
Whip the whimp, the baby-boomer gloom-and-doomer
Baby bought the fiscal fiasco
Baby brought the strategy tragedy
So sue God for the Damnages
THE MORNING SONG....FOR NON-MORNING PEOPLE
I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still.
When suddenly a tiny bird,
Perch on my window sill.
He sang a song so lovely,
So carefree and so gay.
That slowly all my troubles,
Began to slip away.
He sang of far off places,
Of laughter and of fun.
It seemed his very trilling,
Brought up the morning sun.
I stirred beneath the covers,
Crept slowly out of bed.
And gently lowered the window,
And crushed his fucking head.
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.
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