My darling you could keep my heart in your locker
but your Dad is a wrestler, your brothers are Dockers,
so on our hot lovin' they have put the mockers
'cause I  don't have the guts to face violent cockblockers.

You like to take selfies
You sure like to ROFL
You taught me of two girls, one cup and blue waffles
Your knowledge is endless on things such as these
If only your brothers weren't so hard to please.

They think I'm a man *****, a bounder, a cad,
a love shy lothario, a bit of a "lad"
on this I won't argue, the point is well made
but I'm young (ish) and ***** and like to get laid.

They think you're an angel
but that's not the case
'cause the photos you sent me
were not of your face....

Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.

It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.

The universe makes random jokes 
Like, to know me is a curse 
My personalities make it worse.

The introvert in me is ugly painted with gloomy clouds, stalking demons in the alley loves to mourn as a firstborn sick With numb eyes flick,
tears don't exist anymore.

The extrovert in me is silly painted with colours people never been seen, his smile is flawless and always wander around clueless about why he smiles.

The **** in me is a song or people like to call it wrong, a yearlong gong he writes 'lol' in people's wall with a fluffy cloud inside his brain, 
it reads tetrahydrocannabinol, 
notorious for his vocabulary,
can **** with an epistolary.

The Dib is a broken rib, spoon-feed bib 
He writes out of syllabus with sketchy nib,
runs in a solo trip his life says 'rofl'.

©sarcasticbong