Did you know that former Arkansas Governor (and God's favorite little soldier) Mike Huckabee is an amazing poet? Well, it's true. Click here to see just how amazing...ly bad he is.
It gave me a chuckle anyway, and inspired me to write a few horrible poems of my own about this matter. Here they are.
Hey Ho, Let's Go!
Oh GOP oh GOP
so very mad at Pelosi.
Republicans WILL NOT abide
lying liars who just might have lied
and for once I'm on their side.
We really should investigate
this Nancy Pelosi chick,
right after the war crimes trials
of Rumsfeld, Condie, W. and Dick!
Limericks Are Sinful
There once was a big douchebag named Mike
whom only Chuck Norris could like
although torture is fine
Nancy should resign
Waa waa go cry some more, bible thumper.
Huckabee Douchbuggeree
There was an old dork named Michael Huckabee
stuffed full of fail and lots of suck-a-ree
tried to impress Rush Limbaugh with poetic fuck-a-ree
poor old dumbass Huckabee the wanna-be.
Too much fun, I could do this all day. Bring on the investigation, GOP! Let's see exactly how much and when Nancy knew about the Bush administration's ordering of torture. Wheeee! I could probably get a chapbook out of all the poems it would inspire.
Showing posts with label bad poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad poetry. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Vacay Over
I'm back now. Did you even miss me?
I meant to write a long post describing my vacation in detail, but I'm feeling too lazy so instead I just made a up a handy score chart for rating the experience.
Hilton Head Vacation Score Chart
Rated 1 - 10 with 10 = the best
Beach - 9
Hotel - 8
Weather - 6 (very chilly, but it did warm up nicely on my last day)
Restaurants - 8 (good seafood)
Alcohol - 10
Companionship - 10+ (I met up with a very handsome and mysterious man from my past and we boinked like bunnies)
Tacky Souvenirs - 3 (couldn't find any super tacky ones, dangit)
Drive There - 2
Drive Home - (-)14
All in all, it was a nice little vacation apart from the drive there and back. And that mostly only sucked because of the fucking state of Georgia. Fucking Georgia kicked my ass!
Attention all residents and lovers of Georgia. I am now about to slag on your state in a rather harsh way. Read no further if this will inflame you.
Georgia is a big ass state. And the thing is, it's really boring to drive through. There is nothing there except for trees. Why do they bother with speed limits? You should be able to go a hundred mph in order to get through it as fast as possible. Instead they have speed limits that go from 55 to 65 to 70 seemingly with no other intent then to be able to ticket drivers. I saw more cops holding radar guns while traveling through Georgia then I've ever seen in my life.
Plus they have very few rest stops and two I did pass were closed. For someone who likes to stop and pee every 60 miles or so it was torture. Sure, I could pull off the freeway into one of the numerous little shithole towns scattered here and there, but I was reluctant because I noticed a curious thing. Most all of these exits had railroad crossing arms at the entrance and again at the spot to get back on the freeway. Why? To block travelers from coming in....or leaving?
In my overheated imagination I became convinced that these little towns were full of crazed and horny albino pinheads lying in wait for women driving alone. As soon as one pulled over into one of their crappy gas stations, they would then give the signal.
"Close the gates, Cleteus! We got us a woman what ain't related to us! Hee haw! Geh geh geh!"
I vowed to avoid these places, but 200 hundred miles later I was desperate for a pee so I had to stop at one. I called my mom first though and told her the name of the town just in case I was never heard from again, so they'd know where to look.
I swear, I could practically hear the banjos playing as I got out of the car. The first thing I noticed when entering the store was a large, hand lettered sign on the ladies room door that said, "Restrooms for paying customers ONLY!" The second thing I noticed was that the word "customers" was misspelled. And the third thing was that the mean hillbilly at the cash register talking to what looked to be the town whore and possibly his sister (the had the same missing teef) was glaring at me, so I couldn't just sneak into the bathroom.
Grudgingly I bought an overpriced bottle of water and then made sure to splash the seat when I finally peed. It wasn't hard to do considering there was no toilet paper. Fucking Georgia!
On the way home, I found that a few portions of 75N were closed down to one lane so they could do some sort of roadwork. Basically it took three and a half hours to go 80 miles. I spent the entire time making up poems about how much Georgia sucks. Here are a couple of examples:
Fuck You Georgia!
I hate this state so bad
Your fucked up traffic is making me quite mad
Screw you, Georgia!
This state's a piece of shit
no one should ever visit
(if you do bring a toilet kit).
Georgia sucks, this is quite true
If it were a band, it'd be Blink 182
If I lived here I'd have to sniff glue
every single day
instead of monthly like I usually do.
There once was a hawt girl named Pru
stuck in traffic while trying to drive through
this hideous state
making her quite irate
said Pru to Georgia, "Fuck you!"
I thought that I should never see
so many toothless hillbillies
even more so than Tennessee
Four out of five dentists agree
the only thing to do in Georgia is flee.
Well, there are many more since I was stuck for so long but I think you get the picture.
In conclusion I'd like to say, Hilton Head Island is lovely, go visit sometime if you can. But avoid going through Georgia as it sucks ass. That is all.
I meant to write a long post describing my vacation in detail, but I'm feeling too lazy so instead I just made a up a handy score chart for rating the experience.
Hilton Head Vacation Score Chart
Rated 1 - 10 with 10 = the best
Beach - 9
Hotel - 8
Weather - 6 (very chilly, but it did warm up nicely on my last day)
Restaurants - 8 (good seafood)
Alcohol - 10
Companionship - 10+ (I met up with a very handsome and mysterious man from my past and we boinked like bunnies)
Tacky Souvenirs - 3 (couldn't find any super tacky ones, dangit)
Drive There - 2
Drive Home - (-)14
All in all, it was a nice little vacation apart from the drive there and back. And that mostly only sucked because of the fucking state of Georgia. Fucking Georgia kicked my ass!
Attention all residents and lovers of Georgia. I am now about to slag on your state in a rather harsh way. Read no further if this will inflame you.
Georgia is a big ass state. And the thing is, it's really boring to drive through. There is nothing there except for trees. Why do they bother with speed limits? You should be able to go a hundred mph in order to get through it as fast as possible. Instead they have speed limits that go from 55 to 65 to 70 seemingly with no other intent then to be able to ticket drivers. I saw more cops holding radar guns while traveling through Georgia then I've ever seen in my life.
Plus they have very few rest stops and two I did pass were closed. For someone who likes to stop and pee every 60 miles or so it was torture. Sure, I could pull off the freeway into one of the numerous little shithole towns scattered here and there, but I was reluctant because I noticed a curious thing. Most all of these exits had railroad crossing arms at the entrance and again at the spot to get back on the freeway. Why? To block travelers from coming in....or leaving?
In my overheated imagination I became convinced that these little towns were full of crazed and horny albino pinheads lying in wait for women driving alone. As soon as one pulled over into one of their crappy gas stations, they would then give the signal.
"Close the gates, Cleteus! We got us a woman what ain't related to us! Hee haw! Geh geh geh!"
I vowed to avoid these places, but 200 hundred miles later I was desperate for a pee so I had to stop at one. I called my mom first though and told her the name of the town just in case I was never heard from again, so they'd know where to look.
I swear, I could practically hear the banjos playing as I got out of the car. The first thing I noticed when entering the store was a large, hand lettered sign on the ladies room door that said, "Restrooms for paying customers ONLY!" The second thing I noticed was that the word "customers" was misspelled. And the third thing was that the mean hillbilly at the cash register talking to what looked to be the town whore and possibly his sister (the had the same missing teef) was glaring at me, so I couldn't just sneak into the bathroom.
Grudgingly I bought an overpriced bottle of water and then made sure to splash the seat when I finally peed. It wasn't hard to do considering there was no toilet paper. Fucking Georgia!
On the way home, I found that a few portions of 75N were closed down to one lane so they could do some sort of roadwork. Basically it took three and a half hours to go 80 miles. I spent the entire time making up poems about how much Georgia sucks. Here are a couple of examples:
Fuck You Georgia!
I hate this state so bad
Your fucked up traffic is making me quite mad
Screw you, Georgia!
This state's a piece of shit
no one should ever visit
(if you do bring a toilet kit).
Georgia sucks, this is quite true
If it were a band, it'd be Blink 182
If I lived here I'd have to sniff glue
every single day
instead of monthly like I usually do.
There once was a hawt girl named Pru
stuck in traffic while trying to drive through
this hideous state
making her quite irate
said Pru to Georgia, "Fuck you!"
I thought that I should never see
so many toothless hillbillies
even more so than Tennessee
Four out of five dentists agree
the only thing to do in Georgia is flee.
Well, there are many more since I was stuck for so long but I think you get the picture.
In conclusion I'd like to say, Hilton Head Island is lovely, go visit sometime if you can. But avoid going through Georgia as it sucks ass. That is all.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Hobo Queen
I wanna be a hobo woman
in fact, I want to be their queen.
I'll wander around the country
and dine on bum cuisine.
Which I imagine consists of
Thunderbird and cans of beans.
All I'll need are my sturdy legs
and a pair of steel tipped boots.
When other hobos get a glimpse of me
they will start to clap and hoot.
And hork up big balls of globby spit
in an admiring hobo salute.
As hobo queen I shall have my choice
of the finest cigarette butts.
A cardboard box to keep the rain off my head
and a pair of junkyard mutts.
If anyone tried to mess with me
they'd feel my knife in their guts.
Then I'd wait out in the railroad yard
for the next train to come along,
playing an old harmonica
and singing a fun folk song.
About a bum named Big John Toenail
who could open cans with his schlong.
I'd cuss and fart and fight all night,
maybe even grow a beard.
A silky blonde chin covering
for which I'd be revered.
Because a hirsuit, lady vagabond
is a woman to be feared.
Now you don't need to lecture me
about things like good hygiene.
Because, as every hobo knows
dirt makes the best sunscreen.
Bum wine works well to kill the germs
and bleach my black teeth green.
My breath will positively reek
like an outhouse in July.
My appearance will make children shriek
and grown men start to cry.
But if you dare make fun of me
you'll get stabbed in the eye.
A hobo queen demands respect
so you'd better quit that smirking.
Or my hobo army might get pissed
and then they'll start berserking.
You might not like our filthy life
but hey, it sure beats working.
All hail good Queen Prunella "Strangey" Jones! Oh yeah! Wooooooo!
in fact, I want to be their queen.
I'll wander around the country
and dine on bum cuisine.
Which I imagine consists of
Thunderbird and cans of beans.
All I'll need are my sturdy legs
and a pair of steel tipped boots.
When other hobos get a glimpse of me
they will start to clap and hoot.
And hork up big balls of globby spit
in an admiring hobo salute.
As hobo queen I shall have my choice
of the finest cigarette butts.
A cardboard box to keep the rain off my head
and a pair of junkyard mutts.
If anyone tried to mess with me
they'd feel my knife in their guts.
Then I'd wait out in the railroad yard
for the next train to come along,
playing an old harmonica
and singing a fun folk song.
About a bum named Big John Toenail
who could open cans with his schlong.
I'd cuss and fart and fight all night,
maybe even grow a beard.
A silky blonde chin covering
for which I'd be revered.
Because a hirsuit, lady vagabond
is a woman to be feared.
Now you don't need to lecture me
about things like good hygiene.
Because, as every hobo knows
dirt makes the best sunscreen.
Bum wine works well to kill the germs
and bleach my black teeth green.
My breath will positively reek
like an outhouse in July.
My appearance will make children shriek
and grown men start to cry.
But if you dare make fun of me
you'll get stabbed in the eye.
A hobo queen demands respect
so you'd better quit that smirking.
Or my hobo army might get pissed
and then they'll start berserking.
You might not like our filthy life
but hey, it sure beats working.
All hail good Queen Prunella "Strangey" Jones! Oh yeah! Wooooooo!
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Ode to Riverside
On the outskirts of a desert
about sixty miles or so from LA,
lies one of the most magical cities
you will find in this great US of A.
I have so many things to say
about this precious tract of sandy dirt.
This beauty’s name is Riverside
though no water can be found there.
It's frequently shrouded by a thick haze of smog
which softens the sunlight’s merciless glare.
I miss the gray and choking air
that I inhaled in Riverside.
Oh Riverside, my Riverside
where the land is crispy, dry, and brown.
I get a wispy feeling in my heart
when I think about my lovely town.
There I grew up a delicate flower
Shielded and cottoned by the smog.
My parents made me go to church
and listen to country music on KFROG.
Syrupy songs about Jesus and dogs,
inspired this poet with their musical power.
Sports are important in the schools
and there are a number of public pools.
The girls softball team
for which I played catcher
was coached by a man nicknamed "The Nutsack Scracher."
He was such a massive tool.
I wonder what happened to that old fool?
There are many teens called Juggalos
who wear silly makeup, hair, and clothes
and hang out by the railroad tracks
listening to a band called Insane Clown Posse
and drinking Cisco to relax.
Why they do this nobody knows
I never had the nerve to ax.
Ocasionally people get run over
when they get too drunk or high.
Forcing the train to screech to a stop
and backing up traffic for miles and miles.
Angry driver’s cuss and sigh
which is an annoyance to neighbor’s who live nearby.
My mother once owned a house which sat
On Mount Rubidoux’s rocky south-east side.
Perched there like a noble tooth
In a gaping mouth called Riverside.
Alas, the house exists no more.
It burned to the ground one fateful morn,
when squatters broke in and attempted to use
firecrackers to open a can of corn.
To these idiots I feel nothing but scorn.
This is what can openers exist for!
There is a Vietnam vet named Gimpy
who lives behind the Circle K.
He offers decent quality speed and pot
at low, low prices everyday.
Just tell him Prunella sent you
and you'll get good service without delay.
You will meet interesting folk there, including
truck drivers, glue sniffers, and Bible thumpers.
Meth heads that’ve lost their driver’s license
often crash their bicycles into the back of your bumper.
You can sometimes see bums having knife fights
out behind the VFW's dumpsters.
There is a brand new rehab hospital
and a place for the mentally ill.
So the drunks and crazy homeless
can meander around at will.
It’s also a good place to score some pills.
Yes, Riverside supplies plenty of pharmaceutical thrills.
And they frequently mug a stranger,
And they sometimes escape, and will hide,
but the folks are not all of them drunk and crazy
who hail from a town called Riverside.
Southern California's greatest pride.
about sixty miles or so from LA,
lies one of the most magical cities
you will find in this great US of A.
I have so many things to say
about this precious tract of sandy dirt.
This beauty’s name is Riverside
though no water can be found there.
It's frequently shrouded by a thick haze of smog
which softens the sunlight’s merciless glare.
I miss the gray and choking air
that I inhaled in Riverside.
Oh Riverside, my Riverside
where the land is crispy, dry, and brown.
I get a wispy feeling in my heart
when I think about my lovely town.
There I grew up a delicate flower
Shielded and cottoned by the smog.
My parents made me go to church
and listen to country music on KFROG.
Syrupy songs about Jesus and dogs,
inspired this poet with their musical power.
Sports are important in the schools
and there are a number of public pools.
The girls softball team
for which I played catcher
was coached by a man nicknamed "The Nutsack Scracher."
He was such a massive tool.
I wonder what happened to that old fool?
There are many teens called Juggalos
who wear silly makeup, hair, and clothes
and hang out by the railroad tracks
listening to a band called Insane Clown Posse
and drinking Cisco to relax.
Why they do this nobody knows
I never had the nerve to ax.
Ocasionally people get run over
when they get too drunk or high.
Forcing the train to screech to a stop
and backing up traffic for miles and miles.
Angry driver’s cuss and sigh
which is an annoyance to neighbor’s who live nearby.
My mother once owned a house which sat
On Mount Rubidoux’s rocky south-east side.
Perched there like a noble tooth
In a gaping mouth called Riverside.
Alas, the house exists no more.
It burned to the ground one fateful morn,
when squatters broke in and attempted to use
firecrackers to open a can of corn.
To these idiots I feel nothing but scorn.
This is what can openers exist for!
There is a Vietnam vet named Gimpy
who lives behind the Circle K.
He offers decent quality speed and pot
at low, low prices everyday.
Just tell him Prunella sent you
and you'll get good service without delay.
You will meet interesting folk there, including
truck drivers, glue sniffers, and Bible thumpers.
Meth heads that’ve lost their driver’s license
often crash their bicycles into the back of your bumper.
You can sometimes see bums having knife fights
out behind the VFW's dumpsters.
There is a brand new rehab hospital
and a place for the mentally ill.
So the drunks and crazy homeless
can meander around at will.
It’s also a good place to score some pills.
Yes, Riverside supplies plenty of pharmaceutical thrills.
And they frequently mug a stranger,
And they sometimes escape, and will hide,
but the folks are not all of them drunk and crazy
who hail from a town called Riverside.
Southern California's greatest pride.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Ode to Juan Valdez
This is pretty much how my brain feels most mornings. I need some coffee.
My brain is like a lazy hobo
wandering around from place to place
babbling nonstop crazy nonsense
and swiging bum wine
till it collapses in a sodden heap
refusing to move and stinking up the joint.
And so I reach for the coffee
and make it extra strong.
Because caffeine works like a great big cop
who prods my brain awake with a swift kick to the ass
and a hissed suggestion.
"Get moving, Rummy!"
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Ballad of Paul and Prunella
Sitting here at my kitchen table
eating oatmeal and wearing a thong,
I think back on my recent trip to England
and wonder how it all went so wrong.
Cripes! Golddigging ain't easy
didn't know how hard it would be
all I wanted was money for a new transmission
and possible sex with Paul McCartney.
Meeting up with Paul was so easy
this is where it helps to be a cute chick.
He was backstage looking for a light for his ganja
so I sidled up to him, smiled, and flicked my Bic.
Paul was so friendly and a gentleman
I liked his crinkly, smiling eyes
As we spoke I hiked my skirt up
so he could get a good look at my creamy thighs.
We talked and laughed and flirted
as we sat back enjoying the pot.
I teasingly called him a total GILF
he winked and said he thought I was hawt.
But it was when he gently kissed my palm
that the flame between us ignited.
And when he asked me to accompany him back to his room
I answered, "Why, I'd be delighted."
And so we strode off hand in hand
into the soft spring night
Blissfully unaware in our giddy lust
that we'd soon be in for a terrible fright.
Paul and me strolling through London before the incident.
She confronted us as we walked through an ally
Paul's looney tunes ex-wife.
There was hate in her eye and crazy spittle on her chin
and in her hands she a held a very large (gulp) butcher knife!
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she snarled.
"Step away from my husband, you skank!
I don't care if the judge says that we are divorced,
I haven't yet finished taking him to the bank!"
Paul got real mad then and yelled back at her
his face turned a bright shade of crimson.
In a shaky voice he urged me to run away fast
just in case she tried to pull an OJ Simpson.
Heather Mills showing her displeasure at seeing me with Paul.
Well, I am not very tough, not by any means
in fact I'm really quite wimpy
my only real weapon is a brazen smart mouth, so I said,
"Why don't you hop your ass on out of here, Gimpy!"
Bellowing with rage, she charged at me then
brandishing the wicked sharp knife
and I thought to myself, "what would MacGuyver do?"
God, I've watched way too much TV in life!
Paul managed just then to take away the knife
but the madwoman just wouldn't quit
quick as a wink she snatched off her peg leg
and began to pummel me with it!
She was quite strong and those blows really hurt
so in order to stop her attack,
I karate kicked her good knee out from under her
causing Heather to fall on her back.
Swooping up the fake leg I held it high above my head
like that guy in The Highlander movie,
and then I quoted the line, "there can be only one!"
because I thought it was funny - you know me.
The next thing I knew there were cops everywhere
and Heather screamed that I'd started the brawl.
They cuffed me and carted my ass off to jail
so I never did get to bang Paul.
Of course, there is a lot more to the story
but for now this is all you can know.
I've saving up all of the juicy details
for my appearance next week on the Dr. Phil show.
eating oatmeal and wearing a thong,
I think back on my recent trip to England
and wonder how it all went so wrong.
Cripes! Golddigging ain't easy
didn't know how hard it would be
all I wanted was money for a new transmission
and possible sex with Paul McCartney.
Meeting up with Paul was so easy
this is where it helps to be a cute chick.
He was backstage looking for a light for his ganja
so I sidled up to him, smiled, and flicked my Bic.
Paul was so friendly and a gentleman
I liked his crinkly, smiling eyes
As we spoke I hiked my skirt up
so he could get a good look at my creamy thighs.
We talked and laughed and flirted
as we sat back enjoying the pot.
I teasingly called him a total GILF
he winked and said he thought I was hawt.
But it was when he gently kissed my palm
that the flame between us ignited.
And when he asked me to accompany him back to his room
I answered, "Why, I'd be delighted."
And so we strode off hand in hand
into the soft spring night
Blissfully unaware in our giddy lust
that we'd soon be in for a terrible fright.
Paul and me strolling through London before the incident.
She confronted us as we walked through an ally
Paul's looney tunes ex-wife.
There was hate in her eye and crazy spittle on her chin
and in her hands she a held a very large (gulp) butcher knife!
"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she snarled.
"Step away from my husband, you skank!
I don't care if the judge says that we are divorced,
I haven't yet finished taking him to the bank!"
Paul got real mad then and yelled back at her
his face turned a bright shade of crimson.
In a shaky voice he urged me to run away fast
just in case she tried to pull an OJ Simpson.
Heather Mills showing her displeasure at seeing me with Paul.
Well, I am not very tough, not by any means
in fact I'm really quite wimpy
my only real weapon is a brazen smart mouth, so I said,
"Why don't you hop your ass on out of here, Gimpy!"
Bellowing with rage, she charged at me then
brandishing the wicked sharp knife
and I thought to myself, "what would MacGuyver do?"
God, I've watched way too much TV in life!
Paul managed just then to take away the knife
but the madwoman just wouldn't quit
quick as a wink she snatched off her peg leg
and began to pummel me with it!
She was quite strong and those blows really hurt
so in order to stop her attack,
I karate kicked her good knee out from under her
causing Heather to fall on her back.
Swooping up the fake leg I held it high above my head
like that guy in The Highlander movie,
and then I quoted the line, "there can be only one!"
because I thought it was funny - you know me.
The next thing I knew there were cops everywhere
and Heather screamed that I'd started the brawl.
They cuffed me and carted my ass off to jail
so I never did get to bang Paul.
Of course, there is a lot more to the story
but for now this is all you can know.
I've saving up all of the juicy details
for my appearance next week on the Dr. Phil show.
Friday, May 09, 2008
Four Bitchy Poems About The Boobie Barn
Hang the DJ
I suppose I should start tipping the DJ better
so he won't play Air Supply songs when it's my turn to dance.
Passive-aggressive little punk!
She Does Not Bang
There is a girl at work named Paris
who dances like she's having a seizure.
Kind of jerking her limbs around and flailing about.
Really, she makes Elaine on Seinfeld look like a ballerina.
So I refer to her as The Epileptic
since I'm mean like that,
and also because she called me flat-chested.
Yeah Paris, your boobs are bigger
but bitch,
you cannot dance!
Mouth Breather
My boss is a mouth breather
his lips are never closed
even when he's not blathering.
He looks like P. Diddy
only goofier, if you can believe it.
Someday I'd like to kick him in the guts.
Wow, An Original Question
Customers, oh customers!
What the fuck is your deal?
Why are you constantly asking
whether or not my tits are real?
I suppose I should start tipping the DJ better
so he won't play Air Supply songs when it's my turn to dance.
Passive-aggressive little punk!
She Does Not Bang
There is a girl at work named Paris
who dances like she's having a seizure.
Kind of jerking her limbs around and flailing about.
Really, she makes Elaine on Seinfeld look like a ballerina.
So I refer to her as The Epileptic
since I'm mean like that,
and also because she called me flat-chested.
Yeah Paris, your boobs are bigger
but bitch,
you cannot dance!
Mouth Breather
My boss is a mouth breather
his lips are never closed
even when he's not blathering.
He looks like P. Diddy
only goofier, if you can believe it.
Someday I'd like to kick him in the guts.
Wow, An Original Question
Customers, oh customers!
What the fuck is your deal?
Why are you constantly asking
whether or not my tits are real?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
My Mother's Afro Pick: A Gift of Love
Here is a sad tale that I'd like to share
about the time my sweet mom put a perm in her hair
that was so tight she resembled a fuzzy blonde bear.
No comb could run through it, which made her cry and swear
and sit slumped over sadly in her rocking chair
because looking in the mirror filled her with despair.
Wanting to help out, I searched the shopping square
hoping to find something that might help to repair
the frizzed out halo of tough, crinkled hair.
At the drugstore I examined the tools for tress care
and discovered some picks to soothe and groom afro hair.
There were plenty to choose from, but I wanted one with flair
and I found a black comb featuring a fist in the air,
which to my eight year old mind was a cool thing to wear
in thirty-six year old, suburban, white lady hair.
But my mom didn't agree and her eyes they did glare
as my dad laughed and laughed till he fell out of his chair.
"Really funny," she hissed, and stormed off to her lair.
Looking back, I think that was a bit unfair.
I wasn't trying to be a smart ass, at least not then and there,
but mom never did use the proud fist on her hair.
I guess the moral of this story is - choose your gifts with care.
Hope everyone has a happy Valentine's Day. I've been busy, but I plan to get back to blogging soon. I bought a sweet new digital camera so I'll be able to post pictures as soon as I figure it out. Don't expect me to post a bunch of pics of my boobs though, I send those straight over to the Rate My Rack website.
Monday, February 04, 2008
A Cheery Poem for Monday
What would you say if I told you that
I have secret fears I'll trip over the cat
and plunge backwards down the stairs and land on my head
the impact would make my skull shatter and shred.
At the bottom of the steps the cement floor would turn red
from the blood and the brains and the spinal fluid
my body so broken I'd prefer to be dead
but I'd end up like Christopher Reeve instead.
I picture it all and it fills me with dread.
Maybe, just maybe I'll get rid of my cat.
Cause I really don't want for my head to go splat.
I have secret fears I'll trip over the cat
and plunge backwards down the stairs and land on my head
the impact would make my skull shatter and shred.
At the bottom of the steps the cement floor would turn red
from the blood and the brains and the spinal fluid
my body so broken I'd prefer to be dead
but I'd end up like Christopher Reeve instead.
I picture it all and it fills me with dread.
Maybe, just maybe I'll get rid of my cat.
Cause I really don't want for my head to go splat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
