Today's poems [2.16.20]
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A lady who lives in Madras
Has a truly magnificent ass.
It is not round and pink,
As you probably think,
But is grey, has long ears, and eats grass.
Part 12 of 12
His bunghole was blown back to Sparta,
Where they buried the rest of our farter,
With a gravestone of turds
Inscribed with the words:
"To the Fine Art of Farting, A Martyr."
There once was a writer named Twain
Who had a peculiar stain
Surrounding the head
Of his prick, it was red
And it was said to wash off in the rain.
There was a young fellow named Simon
Who tried to discover a hymen.
But he found every girl
Had relinguished her pearl
In exchange for a solitaire diamond.
We once had a clerk named Pyle
Who had an affair with our file.
'Twas strewn askew
From K through Q,
And the P's were all sticky and vile.
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