Today's poems [2.13.20]
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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.
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!"
The Beer Prayer
Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.
Thy will be drunk, (I will be drunk),
At home as it is in the tavern.
Give us this day our foamy head,
And forgive us our spillage,
As we forgive those who spill against
And lead us not to incarceration,
But deliver us from hangovers.
For thine is the beer, the bitter, and
Sent by aftab
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