Today's poems [6.7.20]
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To an ancient divine of Tyrone
Was the art of rebushing cunts known.
In each cunt he would ram
A fine, prime raw ham,
And then deftly extracted the bone,
A quick witted astronaut, Dwight,
When asked about his upcoming flight,
Did he have worry one
'Bout landing on the sun ?
"Heck no, we're landing at night!"
The bustard's a fortuitous fowl,
Who has but small reason to growl.
He avoids illigitemacy
By the simple expediency
Of the use of an alternate vowel.
The nephew of one of the czars
Used to suck off Rasputin at Yars,
Till the peasants revolted,
The royal family bolted -
Now they're under the sickle and stars.
While Titian was mixing rose-madder,
His model posed nude on a ladder.
Her position, to Titian,
So he climbed up the ladder and had 'er.
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