Today's poems [7.9.19]
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There was an old maid from Bruton
Who had the bad habit of pootin'.
Her sphincter was weak,
Her wind she couldn't keep---
This tootin' old spinster from Bruton.
There lived in French Louisiana
A quaint and deceived old duenna
Who naively thought
That a penis was wrought
To be et like a thick ripe banana.
There was a young man of Bombay,
Who fashioned a c--t out of clay.
But the heat of his prick,
Turned it into a brick,
And chafed all his foreskin away.
There was once a sad Maitre d'hotel
Who said, "They can all go to hell!
What they do to my wife---
Why it ruins my life;
And the worst is, they all do it well."
So here was this fellow from Strensall,
Whose pecker was shaped like a pencil,
Anemic, 'tis true,
But an interesting screw,
Inasmuch as the tip is prehensile.
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