Today's poems [5.2.19]
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There once was a writer named Twain
Who had a peculiar stain
Surrounding the head
Of his prick: it was red,
And was said to wash off in the rain.
There was a young fellow named Veach
Who fell fast asleep on the beach.
His dreams of nude women
Had his proud organ brimming
And squirting on all within reach.
The was a young man from Peru
Who lived on cunt scapings and poo
When he could find none of these
He lived on the cheese
that under his foreskin grew
There once was a man from Horton,
Who had one long ball and one short one,
To make up for his loss,
He had a cock like a hoss,
And could fart like a 650 Norton.
Sent by Dale
There was a young lady of fashion
Who had oodles and oodles of passion.
To her lover she said,
As they climbed into bed,
"Here's one thing the bastards can't ration!"
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