The first layer of Hell is full
Of normal people. It is musty.
In the second layer are gluttons,
The slothful and the lusty.
The third layer’s for murderers,
And it smells like rotting poop.
Everyone else goes to the deepest layer
Where they play Taylor Swift on an infinite loop.
Filed under Poems
If their best player’s white
You’re not doing it right.
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I said “People love dying of cancer
“And stinky electrical stuff.
“Why don’t we combine them?”
Then the corporations called my bluff.
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The Right
NASCAR is America’s favorite sport,
And know I think I know why:
They keep turning left over and over
Until they crash, burn, and die.
———————————————————–
The Left
NASCAR is America’s sport,
But the first guy does not understand:
If the drivers do not turn left fast enough
The kill random folks in the stands.
————————————————————
The Highly Intelligent
NASCAR is America’s sport,
But I prefer monster trucks.
At least we agree on the important stuff,
Which is to agree soccer sucks.
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Jimmy is our drummer
And Johnny plays guitar
And Danny knows a guy
Who knows a guy who owns a bar.
Eddy is our singer
And our charismatic face.
When we get to the venue
We’ll teach someone to play the bass.
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Hollywood makes movies,
Then they make sequels,
Then they remake them,
And then they make prequels.
That’s how it goes
According to me
So here are some prequels
That I’d like to see:
Schindler’s College-Ruled Notebook;
Leon: The Trainee;
The Lambs Being Noisy;
American History V;
Reservoir Puppies;
Work-Visa Kane:
Wall-D; The Fifth Sense;
Wayne’s Global-Domination Campaign;
The Accelerating and Cranky;
“No Thanks, I Just Ate” Games;
Dragon Ball Y;
“No Bail For Me” James;
2000: Just Earth;
And last but not least:
“Be-Careful-Who-You-Call-Ugly-In-Middle-School” and the Beast.
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Your presence is like ice cream
Eaten with a wooden spoon
While a puppy sits upon my lap
Some Sunday afternoon.
Your voice is like a raindrop
After seven years of drought.
I’m acting like a macho dude
For fear that you’ll find out.
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To the victor go the spoils,
The diamonds and the oils,
The right to raise a flag above
A world that’s not their own.
To the losers, the defeated,
Goes an anger ever-heated,
Simmering for generations
Within each descendant’s bone.
To the watchers, the supporters,
Pulling strings and giving orders
Goes a power of oppression
And, with it, endless pain.
To the peaceful, to the no one,
Goes the best life in the long run,
Remembered in the darkness
Which always will remain.
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Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I put as much effort into this poem
As the Game of Thrones writers would’ve.
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Thanks for calling IRS
We’re pleased to take your call.
We’ll be with you shortly
In almost no time at all.
Today’s call volume’s low
So you’ll likely only wait
Until the next December
Or the climax of your fate.
In the meantime please relax
And find something to do.
Our agents are quite busy
Making life feel hard for you.
We would like to help you
And help we probably could
But, by law, we are forbidden
To do anything good.
We know you are unhappy
And we know we’ve caused you stress.
Here’s some tax-funded Muzak.
Thanks for calling IRS.
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The Daily Travesty 