Tag Archives: Parody

To All The PhDs Enjoying a Sporting Event Today (Or On A Given Future Day, Circumstances Permitting)

I realize this day is special

For a contest will take place

In which genetically superior constituents

Will seek, in scoring, to outpace

Their counterparts in opposition

Within a time allotted,

Thus justifying the fiduciary endowments

With which said constituents are besotted.

I hope that in future contests

Of similar athletic variety

That your subgroup of physically-fit object-movers

May prove worthy of your them-focused piety.

In fact, I would extend my well wishes

That your team may excel in perpetuity

Until their superior members inevitably decay

And we may correct our lost-time incongruity.

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The Gingerbread’s Regrets

I told them to run, run, run.

In fact, I mercilessly taunted.

Alas the final result

Was nothing like what I wanted.

I did not fully consider

When all was said and done

The degree of just how slowly

We cookie-men can run.

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See Spot Run

See spot run.

Spot runs fast

Because if Spot

Comes in last

Spot will lose

His family’s approval

Which will lead, in relation

To his house, his removal.

Spot enjoys

Not living on the street

So Spot runs fast.

Of foot, he is fleet.

Spot comes in second

Which Jane thinks is slick.

Alas, Spot’s owner

Is a Dick.

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USA, November 2016

Roses are reds,

Violets are blue,

These are both valid points, and I’ll address them in a moment, but first…

But does anyone stop to comfort the violets in their sorrow? Even once?

No!

You know, depression is a chemical imbalance and has many dangerous side effects. But when it becomes a part of ones identity, as it has for the violets, it transcends its mortal debilitation and becomes a blight on the very soul.

When I’m elected, I’m going to make violets purple again! And not by adding rose colored glasses, no. Not by that. Who needs all the thorns roses bring anyway? No, I dream of a garden where honest, hardworking violets can grow bigly without the radical redness of roses!

In other words, f*** you roses.

Let’s Get Pruning ™

This poem brought to you by Goldman Sachs.

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“An Updated Classic” Or “Backstory”

It was one of those days

When you want apple pie

But the waitress is cute

And you’re just too shy.

It’s one of those days

To spend at the riverbank

But when you drive there, the water’s

All stuck in a tank.

You want to hang out

With men who are classy

But good guys are drunk, so you settle

For guys who’re half-assy.

And you and your half-assy

Friends you’ll soon see

Just sit around singing

About mortality.

Oh my my,

I missed the American pie.

Drove my chevy to the levy

But the levy was dry,

And the good old boys

Were drinking whiskey and rye.

Yeah, I guess this’ll be

The day that I die.

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Four Percent of Poetry Readers Will Understand This Poem – Stanza Six Will Shock You!

Hey honey bunny,

Maybe you can help me?

I’m trying to think of a rhyme.

I need a word that means “nectar”

That rhymes with “rabbit.”

I’ve thought about it for a long time…

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Winter is Coming

Oh you’d better watch out.

You probably will die.

You slept with your sister,

Not gonna lie.

Game of Thrones is coming to town.

You’ve finished the season

And now you must wait.

Don’t lose your head…

Oops, too late.

Game of Thrones is coming to town.

The characters are creepy.

The show keeps you awake.

They’ll kill off eveyone you like,

So like Joffrey for all our sakes.

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NFL Commentary

How do you like those Animals?

They’ve got grit and size and speed.

Getting the ball from the QB’s hands

To the receiver’s what they need.

They’ve got guys who make a difference,

They’re just as strong as they seem,

And I think they’ll be successful

If they score more than the other team.

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The Cat In The Lap

‘Twas a quiet day in the house

And a good day to be a mouse

For as the sly poet tried to come up with crap

The cat on the floor flew onto his lap.

“Hello there kitty,” the poet did shout

As the cat proceeded to let its hair all fall out.

The poet spoke more and stroked it’s blonde fur,

And the cat licked itself and mumbled a purr.

Then the poet’s appointment, confirmed as it was,

Took precedence over the self-licking fuzz. 

And so he departed, and the cat in the lap

Lay down in his sheddings for his apathy nap.

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The Little Intestine Who Could

There was too much water,

At least a gallon or two.

Little intestine was struggling

To make some pee for you.

The intestine thought “I think I can.”

As it turned out, he could.

If you didn’t like this poem

Small intestine says “you should.”

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