My verse, my verse, my songbook of woe, my lesions
Leak, and my melon-breasts I fondle with fond foreboding.
Here, ‘poet‘, here's your elephant pill broken up
Into four hundred pieces stamped
With the Good Housekeeping Seal Of Disapproval.
Acccch! Where's the little blue one, the one
Which gives my willie the willies,
My cataracts contracting around my turquoise contacts,
My demented weapon half-tensile in brief non-sag time
While, during the rag-time, I spill my verse-load
Upon the dusty unused dance floor.
Oh my God! Why hast Thou forsaken me?
[waking up from a centuries-long slumber]:
GEORGE W. BUSH:
And the people who knocked down
The ‘poet's’ verses, they'll hear from us, too!
On our shooooo tonight, the pastoral ‘poet‘,
Really, really big shooooo.
The ad space hasn't been this expensive since
We had those four Mop Tops from Liverpool with us.
I stand in beauty gazing at the fairest,
The most lovely breath of beauty
That my hands absentmindedly stroke
Her virtual hair and part her cleavage
With my forked tongue ....
That'll be enough, wormy wordster.
You may beguile yourself into a sentimental orgasm
When fixating on my pic,
But I'm a real woman,
And if ever you were in the same room as I,
You'd cum in your woolen crossed gaiters
If I so much as touched your arm.
Away! Obsess over another poor soul;
I'm much too imperfect and passionate
To be an evanescent laughingstock
In your fetid public dreams.
[awaking again with a start]:
Who's sending out for pizza?