Appalling Poetry III: In it to win it

Scooter is a bad mang.
Just listen to his twang,
as he says he twiddled thumbs all
day, as addled as desk jockeys
well can be. Tee hee.
"That's me!" he claims.

Scooter is a bad mang.
Let's twirl him a few times,
Then beat him on the end
that ends up up.

Also - hahaha - my red meat comic of Dan's poem still works!

"Well that was shit". I shut the book.

one day I will Follow
U
I aM coming
'Ello

toy'z r us nigga-- U decide--
joy is luck--
U could die!

EAT A SNAKE ON A PLANE!
FREAK A FAKE ON A PLAIN!

eat a cow made of wax . . .
draw a pipe made of cracks . . .

I'M A FAG DRESSED IN DRAG!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111111111
ACT A FOOL WITH AN EGG!@!*(@#$%*(

I drink a cupfull of sand.
I eat a bowl full of cigarette butts.

U stake a claim in the West
You ate the Krang's brain 4 4th meal.

EDADICTDEIHO!

....and through the lattice which moved as
if a hand is touched by a
hand(which
moved as though
fingers touch a girl's
breast,
lightly)
Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

One of the bleakest moments in a music fan's day to day life is when those magical transcendent moments are no longer transcendent. You listen to the same 10 second clip of a song over and over again, looking for that little thing in the singer's voice, that change in pitch or whatever it was that made it so amazing, but you just can't find it anymore. You probably end up going to Stylus or the used CD store, or maybe even eBay, looking for the next fix and despairing over your loss of innocence. It's like cumming inside a girl and suddenly realizing that you're no longer in love.

Yours in fumes,

tied to a wheel fingers got to feel

i spin on a whim i slide to the right
i felt you like electric light
for our love
for our fear
for our rise against the years and years and years

got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red fuming head
got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red
and i walk from my
i walk from my fume machine

fume in fume out
fume in fume out
fume in

deaf dumb and thirty
starting to deserve this
leaning on my conscience wall
blood is like wine
unconscious all the time
if i had it all again
i'd change it all

got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red fuming head
got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red
and i walk from my
i walk from my fume machine

fume in fume out
fume in fume out
fume in
fume in fume out
fume in fume out
fume in

got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red fuming head
got a fuming head better than the rest
green to red
better than the rest
better than the rest
fuming head

and i walk from my fume machine
i walk from my fume machine

When I was a kid and I had a cold
My mom put a humidifior in my room
and it smelled like mentholatum rub
and it spouted steam, like a fumarole.

I liked to look at it a lot because
it was sort of hypnotic and soothing
and did I mention the menthol smell?
It was soothing and hypnotic, too.

Whereas now when I have a cold I go
to my job like on ordinary 'well' days.
My boss doesn't put a soothing, menthol-
smelling anything in my cubicle.

I want a cough drop with eucalyptus oil.
I want a hypnotic fumarole thing
that spouts steam to look at.
It sucks I have a meeting to attend.

NB: A fumarole is a volvanic steam vent.
They show up in places like Yellowstone
or near the craters of live volcanoes,
but not usually in cubicles like mine.

I bet that meeting sucks a bag of dicks.
It will all be so much rigamarole,
which rhymes with fumarole, and casserole
and won't be hypnotic enough if you ask me.

                                                                                                                 !!!
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  What a tart! L

I leave the room
With a malodorous fume

it's vacci-vacci-vacci-vaccination time
the germs are gonna get it
gonna get gonna get it
they're gonna get it good
they're gonna feel it coming down

watch out pests you're gonna feel the power
watch out freaks you're gonna feel the vibe
watch out dancers your legs are gonna move
take your booty for a dancefloor ride

Going back to nature in Elmer Fudd's estate
Shot to cartoon deathbed, an imation bespoiled
By our failure to communicate
The sounds of prideful loathing that connect our lumpen lives a-coiled.

Imation, our belt's undoing,
A beautiful quetzal buried under a ton
Of elephant dung,
Slung from your rump. He winks whilst he's pooing.

Imation, imitation, the image's relation
To burning petrol fumes in a pump attendant's lungs.
He sabotaged the gas station
Now he's all burnt, a glorious immolation.

Awake in this slimming nation with a bucket of ironic
KFC, we guzzle and galumph a fatty gauntlet
All the way to the piggy-bank, moronic
And crying all the while, "I'm not pwnt yet!"

However, all yea be lost, the lighthouse
Flattens its master with a sigh,
All the sea-gods rise and stiff-wing fly
They must beseech the rain to douse

Our destiny, imation's call, Pete Sampras' second serve
Netfirstserve and WHAM! We're shorn
Of limbs, imation's fall, the downward curve
That takes us round the Cape of Horn.

At last to practice martial arts alone, aloof,
Be the Christian to a self-same lion.
Land head-first to break your neck and see the blessed truth:
All it took was I, mat...I, on.

Can anyone finish this for me? "Crack of Doom" at the end maybe? I've run out of inspiration.

Other patrons steal glances,
whispering; the Maitre d' blanches.
Not a normal night at the Blue Lotus.
You pretend not to notice.
Kimchi drips
in fermented cabbage strips
from the rim of your wineglass.
You have balls of brass.