Monthly Archives: June 2019

A Competitive Game

I asked the rock-paper-scissors champion

The secret of which symbol’s best to choose.

He smiled as he answered: “The key to my success

“Is, when I play, I always try to lose.”

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I Dream

I dream of a Utopia

Where no one eats for free,

Where no elected shadow

Dictates how I must be me,

A place I can be lonely

When I don’t want to fight.

Utopia, I know you’re there

Smiling, out of sight.

I’m homesick for Utopia,

Where death is commonplace,

Where value lies within the heart

Instead of on the face,

A world of small discomforts

That all will know and love

And one where there’s no safety net

Or eyes from up above.

The void between Utopia

And where I’m standing now

Is only empty space to cross,

And so I take a vow

To walk beyond the cliff I see,

To fall, or else to fly.

My body may not make it;

That’s how I know it’s worth a try.

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When You REALLY Don’t Have A Shot With Her

I see a lot of ads these days

When browsing on the net

For Calvin Klein’s new underwear

(I haven’t purchased yet).

Since it’s pride month I get these pics

Of models in a bra.

The caption reads “Proud in my Calvins,”

But I read it as “Hell naw!”

I’m curious if, come July,

We start to see some ads:

“Fruit of the Loom: No fags allowed.”

“Target: For guys with ‘nads.”

“Jesus loves Mack Weldon briefs:

“Wear them or be a sinner.”

“Panties for ladies who realize

“Dildos don’t buy you dinner.”

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Not Based On A True Story At All…

Here I am and in my prime,

No need for fear, no lack of time,

My IQ’s high, my flaws are few,

But there’s one foe I’ve yet to slew.

Somehow I feel my knees go weak

If, to a stranger, I must speak.

I can solve equations in my head

But not control the sense of dread

That spreads from pate to waist to toes

When I must speak to Jane or Rose.

I know Shakespeare, Austen, Keats,

But not wherefore my heart so beats.

Perhaps I’ve read too many tomes

To mix with non-y-chromosomes?

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The Moment Before You Concede The Custody Battle

When I was but a tiny lad,

Not more than eight years old

My mom would tell me “Go to bed”

And I’d do as I was told.

Now I tuck in my 8-year old

And say “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

And she replies “Keep lecturing me

“And they’ll never hear your screams.”

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Feel Better Quick!

If you never ever win

And you seem to always lose:

The video “10 Hours Of Darth Vader Breathing”

Has 2.3 million views.

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2020 Voters (And Europe)

I went to college and got a degree

And hoped it would get me a job.

I learned how to drink, put off work and have threesomes,

And be both a loser and snob.

I can write ten page papers with ten words of content

And get booze with no valid ID.

Now I’m an unemployed expert in horticultural psychology

And I think you deserve this for free.

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NOOOO! THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!

Roses are mauve

And kale causes addiction.

Two women sat quietly.

This poem is fiction.

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From My Rejected Spongebob Script

A daddy seashell said to his son

“If you want to have some fun

“Hold a human ear to your shell

“And you can hear the sound of blood. ‘Tis swell!”

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Hallelujah

There lived a man who wished to die,

With lips malformed so when he’d sigh

The anguish that emerged was like

The first sunrise of Spring.

The humans that he’d never known

Had from all places to him flown

With no intent to comfort him

But just to hear him sing.

The singer sang, the cryer cried

To oceans deep and mountains wide

And every human listener thought

The singer read their mind.

The speaker spoke, the moaner moaned.

His sorrows said, his hopes intoned

Leaving unspoken just enough,

Ensuring seekers find.

He screamed at them in loneliness:

A girl in far too short a dress

Confused by why she couldn’t find

A man who’d stay ’til morning

And, to the men who eyed her, said

To see her heart before her bed

But all they heard were pretty words

And not the singer’s warning.

He sang to those who owned the gold,

The young who’d never gotten old,

The old who’d never been a child,

To those without a penny.

His sharing was his means to cope.

His medicine was spreading hope

Perhaps to you, the listening few

Among the mindless many.

The living listened as he cried,

He sang also to those who died,

A song for all who made mistakes

And sought to change their fate.

Some say that Satan turned to hear

And even shed a single tear.

Although the angel fell from grace

His wings might still bear weight.

No one asked the singer’s name.

To his wake no listeners came

For clouds above were pearly white

And sky above was blue.

Thus did the singer move along.

No longer needed was his song.

The singer lives forever

Even though his wish came true.

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