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A fartle is a little ****,
A tiny ***** teaser.
A puff of air, a piece of art,
An itsy sphincter sneezer.
Pure white
Speckle Of black
Hint of grey
Weight and heat
In the snow

Pick it up
In your hands
Breathe it in

What it is
You hold
In your hands

Penguin ****
My toes are short and stubby
They wiggle all about
They're getting kind of chubby
And I want to rip them out.
But Mommy wouldn't like it
(Though Daddy wouldn't care)
If blood got on the carpet,
So I think I'll leave them there.
The monkey in the tree above me
Calls himself my brother,
And he somehow tricked my "parents" into
Having yet another.
And those four neurotic animals,
They found me so intriguing,
That they circled and surrounded me
With loud neurotic shrieking.
And when finally a "sister" came
To even out the score,
I'd already joined the monkeys
Who were dancing on the floor.
Nothing rhymes with birthday,
It's really not my fault...
I've been brainstorming since Thurthday
In my sad poetic vault,
And still NOTHING rhymes with birthday,
Though I plead and cry and moan-
I'll be sitting here 'till Earthday
With this sad pathetic poem.
Birthday, birthday, birthday--
I think it's quite absurd
That no one thought of "birthday"
When they made up rhyming words.
So when people have a birthday
All poets do is sit
And try to think of what to thay
'Cause they can't think of... it.

So it's not for lack of talent
Or money, means, or time;
This birthday poem is ******
For a lack of words that rhyme.
He was sitting in the moonlight,
Tears running down his face,
Wond'ring if he'd ever find
A girl to take her place.

And as he sat there crying,
Alone in pouring rain,
He briefly saw her face and was
Run over by a train.

She was sitting in the corner,
Staring into space,
Hoping, wishing, dreaming,
With a grimace on her face.

She sat there with her daydream,
Her dreams of being lusted,
And as she thought of her true love
She spontaneously combusted.

Yes, they'd loved each other
It wasn't very shrewd
To bottle their emotions up
Before their bodies spewed.
Big, juicy, red
Sneaks up upon unsuspecting
A terrible fight ensues!
Tomato or tutor?
Tutor or tomato?
Tomato knows no math.
Tutor has no seeds.
A standoff.
Tutor and tomato growl menacingly,
Circling one another
Like two pieces of meat
On a microwave turntable.
Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate
Is broken
By the rhythmic sound of incoming
Tutor and tomato are trampled
Like a TV dinner
On the freeway.
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