Don’t want to marry just some girl.
I’m looking for a wholesome girl.
A girl whose lack of cleavage
Warms my big platonic heart.
A girl who thinks that working’s
Not synonymous with twerking.
A girl who skips the bar
Because she wants to look at art.
I want to find a happy lass
Who doesn’t want to shake her ass,
Who goes to church on Sundays
And buys ice cream from a truck,
Who’s pure and chaste and sweet
And, instead of “lit,” says “neat.”
But I also want Beyonce,
So I’m feeling kinda stuck…
Filed under Poems
Some men are boob guys.
Some like hair and eyes.
Some seek butts from all across the globe.
Some go nuts for feet,
But what I think’s neat
Is a lady with some really nice earlobes.
Filed under Poems
I’d be wary of a felon
But she needn’t be a saint.
She eats food almost every day
And will very seldom faint.
She has two eyes, two nostrils too,
And her scalp is topped with hair.
Her days are always better
When she has access to breathable air.
I may sound picky when I say this
But she should have a mouth that can open.
Is there such a perfect girl?
Well, ’til we know, here’s hopin’.
Filed under Poems, Uncategorized
I’ve heard something about women
That makes me incredulous,
That when women live together
They synchronize their monthly schedule. Is
This true, I wonder?
And if it’s truly so
If you need to adjust your “schedule”
Is their a place you can go
Where various dominant women
With different monthly climes
Charge money to reassign “events”
To more convenient times?
You say these clubs do not exist?
Should someone start one then?
If we don’t ask, we’ll never know.
Yours sincerely,
Men
Filed under Poems
‘Twas a full moon
And the night-things were howling.
I was iff on my own
‘Cause my girlfriend was scowling.
She’s usually laid back,
Accepting, and kind
But once every month
She goes out if her mind.
She nags and she whimpers.
She speaks only commands.
Her heart freezes over
And she speaks with her hands.
I’ve put the time on my calendar;
I am no fool.
When the werewife awakens
It’s time to leave and play pool.
Filed under Poems
If you aim to please a woman:
If you aim to please a woman
In the daytime or the night
You must have the understanding
That you will do nothing right.
Women come in all varieties,
Not unlike an apple.
They’re made of the best stuff on Earth
Just like a can of Snapple.
But like a can of Snapple
With the label torn away,
You don’t know what you’ll be getting.
Don’t worry, that’s okay.
If you aim to please a man:
Take off your clothes.
Get out of those
Garments that were “Get in its.”
Then lay on back,
Hope that it’s black,
And enjoy the next three minutes.
Filed under Poems
Hermione
Is smarter than me.
Katniss
Would bring me bliss.
For Sarah Connor
I’d be a goner.
I always swoon
For Sailor Moon.
Princess Leia,
The Vampire Slaya,
Buttercup, Blossom, and Belle.
Cinderella’s
Pretty swell, huh?
They’d all suit me so well.
I stare at my breakfast,
The eggs and the bacon,
And ask why all the good girls
Are fictional or taken.
Filed under Poems
The exodus begins
When the conversation slows.
The first woman says “excuse me,
But I must powder my nose.”
The second woman joins her,
And the rest set in pursuit,
Ensuring the washroom diaspora
Never will be rendered moot.
Meanwhile, the men keep eating
But they cannot help but smile,
For through their lull in conversation
They’ve earned silence for a while.
They ogle other women
And they think about their cars
And how women would be better
If they also came from Mars.
And once the ladies finish
Their powdering and gossip
They go back to the table
Where they face a brand-new toss up:
They can keep on talking
Or be silent like the men.
Thus the guys pretend to listen
‘Til conversation slows again.
Filed under Poems
My eyes water,
My arms sweat,
When I see
My Bernadette.
My tongue goes numb,
And I can’t feel my face
When I see
My lovely Grace.
My feet itch,
My buttocks yawn
When I see
My darling Dawn.
I think that college
Did this to me,
‘Cause I’m a bachelor
In the first degree.
Filed under Poems
The God of thunder
Sat in the dark
Drinking souls from an ancient cup.
Then his wife walked in
With a daylight bulb.
She was just lightening the whole place up.
So Mr. Thunder shut his door.
He was rubbed the wrong way.
He was rubbed downright Thor.
Filed under Poems
The Daily Travesty 