Friday, pie-day
it's my high-day
And I just can't wait to say
bye-day to work, eh?

Kill Kill Kill
Blood Gore Death
Kill Kill Kill
Last Dying Breath
Kill Kill Kill
Guts and Bile
Kill Kill Kill
Fine Ceramic Tile

waiting for weed is a wasty
somewhere between angsty and hasty
if the man don't arrive
some time well before five
nestle crunch stix still be damn tasty

Baboon fucks
Chickens, ducks,
Rats and deer,
In high gear.

Baboon screws
kinkajous,
buffalo,
nice and slow.

That borders on the sublime Hugh.

Thanks! I just had it stuffed.

Lurch

In Castle-town at the salty docks
the pirate rats sit on the rocks
and peer about the piers in search
of a certain longshoreman known as Lurch.
Who has often been known to provide
some cheese to these rats-on the side.
It is easy to find him, you'll know him on sight
in every tavern he is ready to fight
only two gapped teeth are left in his face
his hair smells like seaweed, his nose a disgrace.
Most folks will tell you his mind ain't all there
But if you mention it to Lurch he's too dumb to care.

Yet when it comes to unloading a ship new to port
Lurch is the strongest, I have to report.
Crates full of spices and Indian teas,
barrels of whale oil straight from the seas,
bales of rich cloth and ingots of gold -
all manners of wonder from a ship's hold.
Along the way some bits fall in his pockets
small rubies and sapphires and golden lockets.
Many weeks later when those ships have gone
he?ll take his booty to a well-known pawn.
When he enters the shop his pockets are crammed;
by the time he leaves he?s been royally scammed.

The greedy-eyed pawnbroker has known Lurch for years
and this strange friendship is good for his career.
When the big oaf spreads his loot on the table
the pawnbroker eyes it and starts with this fable
"These rubies are garnets, the sapphires are glass
this locket, ain't gold, 'tis nothing but brass!
I wish you'd done better By Gad and By Cor!
I'll give you two dollars and not a cent more!"
Lurch ponders this in his ponderous way
then takes the money and goes to the bay.
He uses one dollar to buy a cheap beer
after he drinks it he walks toward the pier.

With the last dollar he buys bits of cheese
and feeds the pirate rats - who are mightily pleased.
For though Lurch might be short on good looks and morals
a bit slow in the head and with hands tough as coral
In Castle-town at the salty docks
he has his friends - the rats on the rocks.
They wait patiently as he unloads the ships
and wrestles new cargo with grunts and strong grips.
The rats don't judge him with contempt in their eyes
they sit and appreciate the cheese he supplies.
And so would you too if you were a rat -
though Lurch is an idiot, he'll keep you quite fat!

Oh, Lord, thou art mighty
And if I sin, thou may smite me
I gave you up not to spite thee
But rather mom and dad, alright, G?

Oops, my dyslexia's acting up. I thought this was the thread for godderel.

Damn... by the time I get home, I will have forgotten all about this thread and my vow to post my take on a Scottish ballad.

Poetry is such a bore,
Pointless verse and nothing more.
Empty thoughts in empty heads
'Bout winestains on your lovers' beds.

Tacky rhyme in meter'd song,
Apostrophes that don't belong,
Accents on the second "e"
Are shameful tools, if you ask me.

Why can't poets feèd us
Food instead of detritus?
That's the trick: of course they do.
Who'd'y'think makes Big Macs for you?

we know that Hugh will never do
the deed upon a kinkajou
we know that Hugh will never need
a geared up deer to do the deed
we hope someday Hugh will decide
to keep that which made me open wide
retract a bit and let him heal
or at least let him dandle once for real

Okay you, gent name of Hugh,
with your wisecracks about poets
who work in fast food,

I, being one, who's not touched
a starched bun, or even a dehydrated patty,
call you out here and now,
you elitist fat cow,
and I'll smack you so hard you'll cry Daddy!

Without poets to console us,
demand and cajole us,
the world would be naught but a zoo,
filled with secretaries in hose,
and tight cubicle rows,
chock-full of khaki-uniformed yobbos like you!

left to
his own devices
man
(that is to say, mankind
not
a
singular
man)
will often
rub his genitals

almost
absentmindedly

I came back from a low colonic
That cleared some space inside,
To find a verse I meant ironic,
Understood as snide.

I stand accused of many crimes
And strangely, elitism!
Well, I'll grant you, your poem rhymes,
But you ain't got no rhythm.

ha! well played, Mr. Janus.

And the volleyed returned,
sans intestinal stress,
irony's a hard lesson learned,
if the pupil still needs to guess!

But still, truth is discerned,
and my ire's the less,
this game of rhyme is well-earned,
and the fun of 't outplays the rest!

Proud to be your foolsome foe;
Thanks, t'was played so well.
ROFLMAO,
LOLOL!