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O when gammy gamete of his gamma mamma
and Sellarfield spoff from his pappy’s photonfried *******
seeded the Caeser of our replacers,
the Mohammed of the Muties;
when biology’s genius botchology doodled Salvadordarwinny winners,
Magneto’s mamma’s doctor had ultrasound butcher’s ,
then the doc gollygoshed,
‘You’ve got the ruthless idol to a whole evil brotherhood
of Rugrats of Rutherford up there, my dear!’
And the doctor called his doctor,
who called the police, who called Captain Beany,
who called federal forces – ‘fraidycrats who fingered
an all-time rut in resources – and called Supercynic,
who didn’t buy it and b’sides had no pro-human bias,
but decades later mentioned it in bed with Missus
Martian Manhunter, who called Martian Manhunter,
who was in a *** bar on Mars, hunting a good Martian man.
But some little green queen who’d probed down Brighton in the past,
flying low, cruising in his youhoo.F.O., a humane Martian
called the Earth Embassy, who called the United Nations,
who called a conference of capitulation, and now all call Magneto
Maestro di Mondo Mucho Magnifico Neato,

But I know me too well, and if my wish had been written in redshift
for express delivery, my cosmic order primordialed,
if back to the Planck Epoch the Royal Mail could retroject a plea,
addressed to an aeon or so after God bled light districts,
when Her celestial storge was in its prime prestarry
(before expansion of the Creator’s
postnatal depression made ****** granite mcguigan monadnocks
seem more high and soft than God)
- yeah, if I hadn’t might as well flushed it down a blue elliptical
galaxy, if my prayer had a prayer of
not being under Her radar (all the others were),
but it had aired on God’s baby monitor back when She suppliied
6 daycare, then off my knees, airgonaut with an acierated heart,
I’d be annealed a steely manly overman of steel.

But I’d most likely cheapen that mantle purpureal,
coz if Magneto was me, he’d be a minnow
who’d squander those meaty mutie superpowers,
one of the four fundamental forces  
falling straight from gracerightinto
purloining perv shelves,
jamphlets and jugmags and skinzines and the Daily Inthealtogether,
cumics such as the Creamo and the Randy ****** out of the pornershop
letterbox by a grumblemagnetter, ***** old pied piper of purdy paper
pulling flat stacked girls from grumbelows on a metallokineticowinnow
by their pierced creases.
Like some poltergeist tealeaf
who can’t decline his deadman’s diamondcutter,
I’d be Magneto
bathos had a rainmacked beckoner of centrefolds’ staples,
notso twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story
of the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids.
But now I’ve wondered what you are, Magneto, finito.

— The End —