I love the smell of formaldehyde in the morning.
My Love is finally here, I'm no longer in mourning.
Formal in shrew hides, 'beauty' kindling-sheaves stuffed in pipe.
God is on my side, now someone pass me the boiled tripe.
Don't assume sides, morose niggler of horrendous verse.
I love all, yes, even you, prostate tickled by the nurse.
You have to believe it is magic.
Nothing can stand in his way.
His love is certainly tragic
But at least the sheep gives its OK.
Ah ha! My detractors will be filled with envy and sadness.
She’ll massage my swollen stanzas with gladness.
Studliness and brio are eventually recognized
In furry false teeth, corned horny toes, crossed pink eyes.
Time for your sedative, earth exile, show us your posterior.
Close those eyes. Though stewing, juice soon fills your anterior.
Where is either Spock when you need him?
The 'poet's' drooling. Nurse, with Gerber please feed him.
Down the hatch, buttercup. Your next needle's not till six.
(Why am I cursed with this hospice out in the sticks?)
Hosed down, of rose water I’m sceptic.
I was unwell in the well, septic.
Flinching shrug, Love, or witless baahnter?
My sheep by a nose in a cool canter.
The pic he sent me was a Tom Selleck look-a-like,
But the 'poet' most closely resembles Eisenhower Ike.
I’ll make a getaway before he slobbers on my ankles.
I confess, the whole experience certainly rankles.
This wraps up another episode of 'Swat The 'Poet's' Behind'.
The nurse has just injected the serum, it is most unkind
How, afflicted with expected pity, even I must endure
The illiterate lucubrations of a billboarding twit, impure.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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