On an unspecific weekday
In a not that trusted month
A child was born half media
With a name and brown bagged lunch.
His ears were warped and wobbly;
And his mouth was full of teeth
On his belly, was no button
Plus his hair was combed and greased.
He spoke in pure Heiroglyphics
With a wrist bend and pinache'
They taught him that in art school
Just watch this monster mash.
He is a Photoshop crusader
With a visor, lance, and plume
Manufacturing girl scout cookies
Upon his glittered loom.
His friends were a dimed baker's dozen;
And they swore to god he was greater.
Since he could stretch a canvass with his bumm
While remaining a shoe horned fornicator.
Now, you might be asking yourself...
What sweet Jesus could it all mean?
It really only boils down to this
There's no poetry, with no spleen.
Author notes
Sell your soul, to rock and roll, google horus8.
Written January 23rd, 2004
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1 - 9 of 9
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Hey, smashing autobiography. Your students will like the metrical tumescence of the fifth stanza. Me, I thought it was quite fine. Yours, unsplenetically
Edited on Jan 24, 6:50 p.m. because ''. -
sometimes, if i squeeze my spleen really tight, i obtain a drop of poetic essence.
wait...no i don't. -
It's an organ that filters the blood in your body.
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YOu know I have no idea what a spleen is. Sorry. It was well written though and it rhymed very well so if you don't mind. WHAT THE HELL IS A SPLEEN. Thank you
Haley -
what's the spleen for anyways?
i always only know, that if you get punched in one you could quite possibly die, sometimes, i wanna punch people there, only to knock the poetry out of them of course
Nyx... -
Your weak attempt at rhyming left my manicurist bored, but still blowing my nails? Nice job.
Edited on Jan 24, 3:45 because ''. -
ok....
his dad was Dr Seuss and his mom
an AB neg blood doner,
He remarked that she was loose,
though the problem was really his thin boner.
She screwed him fast on slow evening mondays
he paid in cash and brought icecream sundaes
the month that she missed she knew not to abort
a living she could from the Dr. extort.
When the kid popped out ugly with no spleen and rhymless
the good Doctor split and just left the whore dimeless.
ouch
=8-]
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i agree. i wish my fucking spleen was enlarged. i've been working on it...and it is a great feeling...but i was brought up with this kind of iron fist..."if your spleen gets too large, dammit, we will remove it" that is a tough thing to overcome. but with help, i think i'm making progress...
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Spleenerific
Sweet Jesus indeed Brother Horus8, Sweet Jesus gives and Sweet Jesus takes, but he takes nothing from no man that cannot afford to give. If a man has not a spleen, then Sweet Jesus will cast that man down into the pit until he has found a spleen. The spleenless are not admitted unto the Kingdom of God nor are they permitted to wander the darksome shade of Purgatory. And all the Poets gather once upon the Millenium to sing Praises to Sweet Jesus and Cotton Candy God and there they weave their verse with celestial seasonings and herbs of many colors from all of space and time and they vent their spleens unto the Cauldron of Creation and the world is created once anew, again. Glory be. Amen.
And that's why, boys and girls, there is no poetry, with no spleen.
At least that's what Father Richelieu taught us at the Home and he would let his spleen dangle from his cassock and we would all perform the sacred oiling of the spleen as so to sweeten the venting at some further point in time.
Alas...I am undone. I really like the Samoa cookies the best.
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