I’m far from ecstatic

After working in the attic
Something happened quite dramatic
I tripped and gave my head a bash
And now I have a bloody gash


A reduction in poe-ah-trees

Did you realize
There have been fewer poems?
Two days a week now


Seeing red

Hurling is rough
Gotta be tough
Smacked in the nose
That’s how it goes
Play really hard
Get a red card
Icing his bruise
Watch his team lose
Back in the town
Everyone’s down
But no one sneers
He still gets cheers


Racist cops

If you’re black – cops attack
If you’re brown – cops beat down
If you’re white – cops polite


He refused

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Robert DeNiro


Can’t stand now can they?

If you’re born with skin that’s black
There’s a target on your back
Even with hands in the air
Law enforcement doesn’t care
To them, you’re a big bad dude
Fuck that racist attitude
When that song plays, “Don’t you sit!”
That’s when white folks give a shit
More concerned that you don’t stand
While the blood drips from their hand


This goblin Poap he ain’t no dope

Poap is goblin warrior
Stabbing foes is not a bore
When he cuts, your blood will pour
Then he’ll do it more, more, more!
Poap is hungry ’cause he’s fat
So he ate your smelly cat
If you’re not okay with that
He will chop your head off – splat!


Stop the hate
Start the love

Stop the gun killing
Stop the blood spilling
Stop the race baiting
Stop the cop hating
Start the now living
Start the craic giving
Start the life caring
Start the love sharing


I now have one headlight

Into a nail I stumble
I feel a painful ripple
My moob’s a bloody jumble
I just ripped off my nipple


Spoiler alert dinner is spoiled

The ulcer burst, blood everywhere
It’s in the soup, it’s in their hair
It’s in the wine, it’s on the pie
I think he got some in her eye
It’s on the plate, it’s on the floor
He splattered it upon the door
He spit blood almost to Glasgow
It’s like we’d watched a horror show


No shit?

Here are some facts you never knew
About the act called number two
The first point is a little crude
But crap is mostly not old food
Eat at the cafeteria
And then you make bacteria
Because the way it’s broken down
Dead red blood cells turn feces brown
Our GI tracts are so complex
Our colons differ for each sex
A good turd is a log that sinks
I think it’s one that barely stinks
Plant cellulose is good for you
It’s why you see corn in doodoo
We carnivores may have a gripe
‘Cause Vegetarians don’t wipe
Newborn doodie is quite bizarre
It’s odorless and looks like tar
The weirdest thing they do with poo
Is when they put it inside you
This can repair your GI tract
Good shit saves lives and that’s a fact!


I think I’ll eat a torte

My knee had a huge wart
Its existence cut short
Because of the bump’s size
Which led to its demise
Today it got chopped off
Now there’s a bloody trough
I’m hirsute like an ape
Hairs were lost in the scrape
Goodbye dear friend goodbye
Where do warts go to die?


I <3 Mom & Dad

Happy Anniversary Dad and Mom
You’ve been married for 47 years
You did a good job with me, James and Tom
Seeing us through good times, blood, sweat and tears
Buena Park was a good place to raise boys
The schools were good, and the crime wasn’t bad
We had enough food; we had enough toys
We had enough love, so thanks Mom and Dad!


Spoiler alert

Matthew Crawley, is that blood on your head?
Oh, Matthew Crawley, are you really dead?
Your romance with Mary was magic
She and you had it all
Your ride back to Downton was tragic
You should have made a call
Mr. Branson, should have been the chaffeur
Grantham’s Grandson, is the new heir for sure
Hey Fellowes is nobody sacred?
You’ve removed all the mirth
My love for you has turned to hatred
Since baby Sybil’s birth


There are strange things done in the midnight sun.

The Cremation of Sam McGee
By Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursèd cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ’tain’t being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”; … then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

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