Thursday, January 21, 2010

Three More Stupid Little Poems

Creativity Counts
I don't want to stab or shoot you
That's been done to death
I want to knock you to the ground
And run a floor buffer over your head

Bored Bored Bored
You talk but I'm not hearing
Your voice is just a drone
I'm thinking about what I'm going to do
In a few hours when I'm home
I'm thinking about exploring space
In a ship that I have stowed
And throwing you out of the airlock
To watch your head explode

Dead Hobo Stew
There's a place downtown that sells dead hobo stew
Not many people know about it
It's just me and you
I'll take you there for lunch someday
You'll really have to come
You get to pick out your own hobo
It's really very fun
You watch as it's killed and cooked on the grill
And you get the best cuts of meat
And you get it's bindle afterwards
It's really very neat
I guess I lied there's no such place
It's just me killing hobos
With a hammer to the face
But I'm running out of room to put the bodies
Would you eat a few of them for me?

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