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Bedtime Poetry

Counting each sheep, shooting up crap,
stroking the fur on my pet sewer rat.
Six mugs of cocoa, tune on a fiddle,
still hopping round like a flea on a griddle.
Beating my breast bone to wear out the tear,
piss my pyjamas, why should I care?
Pinch the plump arse of a passing by whore,
throw out the pram with the bed pan and sores.
Stuffing the bun in a hot sticky oven,
talking in tongues all of a sudden.
Oiling my testicles to wrestle with Turks,
lighting a blow torch behind the gas works.
Shit on the sofa talk trash to the tele,
swing from the rafters, wearing fluorescent wellies.
Still counting sheep as they flock through the pen,
wake up in the morning start over again.
So shall it be, but shall it be good?
As for me, with my luck, I don’t give a fuck.

21 Jun 08

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 — unknown

Hm... very creative. In the end, the rhyme scheme shifted, therefore leaving line 17 with a lack of a "partner," but I assume--by the last word being "fuck"--that it was supposed to show some sort of lack of refinement?
 — theshattered

creative and intresting
 — onyx12098

james and the giant peach,
the devilish headmaster did teach
 — dustybottoms

Dear Unknown

I am delighted to see I achieved my objective

Larry wee willy Lark
 — larrylark

Lol, you've a point about Unknown, Larrylark. :)
 — theshattered

I have no point. I only wish i had

Larry empty of head and soul Lark
 — unknown

Dear dusty bottoms

You'll be telling me next that your mar and par got trampled to death in broad daylight by a rhinoceros

Larry orphan boy Lark
 — larrylark

throughly enjoyable.
 — raskolniikov

Dear raskolniikov

It makes me feel so happy that you enjoyed this one, thanks for commenting

 — larrylark