"berlusconi" poems
Bunga Bunga everywhere,
a powerful man with silly hair
seduced a girl too young and scared,
was married too but didn’t care.
Corrupt and feared!
Bunga Bunga sounds like fun,
a swimming pool and saucy sun,
an Egyptian that was on the run
Or, under-aged Morocun
Who ****** the boss!
Bunga Bunga ***** and *****
coffles of women to choose
and buy and grab and ride and use,
with confidence
and so much to lose,
but why didn’t he lose?
Why didn’t he lose when it was on the news
and hundreds of thousands of people accused
him of scandal and incompetence?
He never revealed his conscience
or any remorse for play boy antics
so far removed from his pedantic
stereotype as a political leader,
more like a ****** wheeler dealer,
pervy old ***** geezer,
over cologned,
greasy,
heavy breather;
machinating falsifier;
misogynistic **********
He prized a Ruby above the rest.
Bunga bunga, what a pest...
she leaked his private fetish fest;
poor Silvio, he tried his best
to hide the bribes and bets
and ****** and drugs and threats
but never could care
what was right and
what was fair.
Could only care
about the colour of his
**** hair.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
i guess you don't own the world
china owns a big lump of the world
and a good slice of the us too
bill gates and warren buffett
got a lot of coins in the pocket
but not enough to own the world
the insurance companies
the banks the russian mafia
fannie mae or freddie mac
bono acts like he owns the world
berlusconi i guess, surely would like to
what about the pope or the big news
mcdonald or the duck donald duck's uncle
would be a disaster if they owned the world
big waddling gluttons goes quack, quack, quack
and father disney behind it all is dead
so who is left to suppose to own the world
the prince of dubai or me?
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
Up the hills, past villas, small groves and arbors. And by the Duomo, which, I swear, moved into our path no matter where we went. The fifteenth century refuses to yield.
That giant rival, Milan, now resembles Hartford: large and gaunt. Rome, thief of the renaissance, remembers Mussolini and Berlusconi more than Leo X, who yet lives in Florence, returned to his Medici home.
Florence is the butter of civilization’s milk; nourishment of the flesh churned by hand. The art, the food, the social structure, even the soccer sated in turned, sweet cream.
Fresh oil, fresh wine. Old recipes. The bread remains salt free. The tripe looks ancient. The streets forever too narrow.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC