Eliot York sat on a broom stick like a witch with wings
'cause he's a ***** who likes to sit on sharp, pointy things

Lou Costello saw epileptic Bud Abbott as a big Jack Russell terrier,
whose owner's a zoo vet cuttin' through the pig-back-muscle barrier

Acute adenoidal hypertrophy cannot be of bees, slim tactics, tokens
shaved of serrations, nor chroma key screens of greenish adorations
that steer saints to tomes prizing kingly privilege from high stations
where-from hangers-on & thin mistresses sally forth lezzy relations
in sight of cruel Niger beauties flowering in ******* miscegenations
with Comancheria's Comanches who burn from demon usurpations
flowin' rearward to proto-Comanchee versus Shoshonee retaliations
that form habits that contribute to jammed ***** for gay Caucasians
in clinics for handsome Mexicans of Africani-gendered persuasions
I sliced my right hand heel on a soup can causin' deep abrasions the morning of Wednesday, 15 March 2017, sparin' my ****, grey shins

I smoke cigarettes so my boyfriend will love me
and I know it's alright with Jesus above me

My First *******
Tyrone Washington broke my cherry to
knock me up good on his very first try
even though I told him I'm in love with
some dumb-***, pimple-faced white guy
So here I sit pregnant with a smoked-out
laugh that is hoarse, ragged and tinny
after buying baby clothes at the Salvation
Army to clothe my newborn picaninny

****-Faced No More
The nights are over of me puking drunk by the river, moonlit lunar
now that I gotta ***-feed this tar-black ******* named Tyrone, Junior
which is why I'll never again let an ape use my **** as a **** door

We met as we vomited from a skyscraper onto people looking up at the skyscraper. I held your hair as you penetrated the core of my womanhood twice. We rolled around muddily in muddy mud like pigs in heat. I threw puke at you and you laughed. "Why?" You begged to know, while your shoes burned from the gasoline I soaked them in. "Shut up and get a job!" I ordered. "I can't while my feet are on fire," you replied.

It would pass for an egg sandwich. I could lie about it*
*being an egg sandwich and get away with it, big time.

Are you going to be okay?
I sure am!

Hey, that truck is full of reeking garbage! Is it a garbage truck? It sure is, Timmy. And who are those men in the garbage truck? Timmy those men are your father. All of them. Ah ha.

You're not going to ******-lip your way out of this one!
What?
Oh, nothing.

You cut down my tree with a hatchet. I hate you. Happy birthday. Prepare to die! "There are millions of delicious chicks and we can't **** 'em all," said Averell Harriman just before he crapped out.
[Let's forget "The Crédit Mobilier Scandal of 1872" for now.]