Tag Archives: Freedom

Dear Internet: Why The Exception?

You can’t mock someone ’cause they’re fat,

Ugly, stupid, stuff like that.

You can’t make jokes about a race

(At least not to somebody’s face).

You can’t gay-bash, slut-shame, or mock

The way one laughs or thinks or talks.

But you can defame or spew hate at

Those with neckbeards or a fedora hat.

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Logic, American Dream Style

Monday through Friday

My heart’s only dread

Is that midmorning song

That says “get out of bed.”

Yet come days of Satur

And as well days of Sun

My heart sings in the morning

‘Til the day is all done.

For when clocks of alarm

Cracks serenity’s hold

And says “put on your clothes

“And go do what you’re told”

My vigor and pep

Aren’t what they used to be

Like when I was a child

And still blissfully free.

When instead of alarms

To the sun I awaken

And instead of my job

I get pancakes and bacon

My bliss flows more freely

And I feel stronger.

From now on I’ll work weekends

And be miserable longer.

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Life Without Makeup

Chapped lips, dry skin,

Hair without a bobby pin,

Baggy pants, hairy pits,

A shirt that hides any sign of tits,

Spotty face, mustache line,

Eau de toilette called “big ass pine,”

A house that others call a sty:

Just another great day of being a guy!

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Correlation and Causation

The caged hamster

Lays no eggs.

Imprisoned gators

Give no milk.

Detained cobras

Have no legs.

Subjugated silkworms

Yield no silk,

Yet free-range chickens

Lay eggs daily.

Fence-free cows

Give endless cream.

Freedom lets you

Go through life gaily,

So free the hamsters and reptiles

And we’ll live the dream!

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The Evening Following Fido’s Emancipation

Tasty chunka meat

Sizzlin’ nicely on the stove.

Who’s “master” now, Bitch?

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On My Own Terms (The Cat Song)

You take me into your home.

You keep me inside and play with my hair.

You call me a pretty boy

Then you punish me. Baby, give me some air!

You say “call me master.”

I am your slave now.

But I’ll live on my own terms

And soon to me you’ll bow.

You thought you’d relax in the bathroom,

Have clean furniture and a new-house smell.

You forgot me in that equation.

Now I welcome you to nine lives in Hell.

You said “call me master.”

I just said “meow.”

But I’ll live on my own terms

So who’s the master now?

Now you call me master.

You’re little more than my serf.

Now you’ll live by my terms

Or get your ass off my turf!

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Filed under Lyrics, Poems

That Got Morbid Fast…

If freedom were free

That would be fine with me,

But then who’d pay for weapons

To blow up the foreigners?

So thank guys in cammo

And the makers of ammo

For giving us freedom.

Yours truly, the coroners.

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