"butterfingers" poems - Hello Poetry

"butterfingers" poems

The emus formed a football team Up Walgett way; Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream But kangaroos would sit and scream To watch them play. "Now, butterfingers," they would call, And such-like names; The emus couldn't hold the ball - They had no hands - but hands aren't all In football games. A match against the kangaroos They played one day. The kangaroos were forced to choose Some wallabies and wallaroos That played in grey. The rules that in the West prevail Would shock the town; For when a kangaroo set sail An emu jumped upon his tail And fetched him down. A whistler duck as referee Was not admired. He whistled so incessantly The teams rebelled, and up a tree He soon retired. The old marsupial captain said, "It's do or die!" So down the ground like fire he fled And leaped above an emu's head And scored a try. Then shouting, "Keep it on the toes!" The emus came. Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows They laid their foemen out in rows And saved the game. On native pear and Darling pea They dined that night: But one man was an absentee: The whistler duck - their referee - Had taken flight.

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9.7k

A B 'Banjo' Paterson

Fur And Feathers

The emus formed a football team Up Walgett way; Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream But kangaroos would sit and scream To watch them play. "Now, butterfingers," they would call, And such-like names; The emus couldn't hold the ball - They had no hands - but hands aren't all In football games. A match against the kangaroos They played one day. The kangaroos were forced to choose Some wallabies and wallaroos That played in grey. The rules that in the West prevail Would shock the town; For when a kangaroo set sail An emu jumped upon his tail And fetched him down. A whistler duck as referee Was not admired. He whistled so incessantly The teams rebelled, and up a tree He soon retired. The old marsupial captain said, "It's do or die!" So down the ground like fire he fled And leaped above an emu's head And scored a try. Then shouting, "Keep it on the toes!" The emus came. Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows They laid their foemen out in rows And saved the game. On native pear and Darling pea They dined that night: But one man was an absentee: The whistler duck - their referee - Had taken flight.

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Reese’s Pieces are for people who Are used to picking up the pieces Of broken hearts But they still want to make it A good experience Smiles that look like peanut butter And kisses that taste like chocolate Butterfingers are for the kids who Are used to being picked last for Everything except to cheat off of In math class They’ve grown accustomed to Not being thought of Popular kids like the M&Ms; Because in the end What else do they have except For the stories of muses And the parties they attended One-by-one they picked apart Everyone who didn’t act just like them Pop Rocks are terrible and So are Peppermint Patties Crunch bars and 100 Grand’s Made the jocks think they would actually Go somewhere and do something With their lives Hope comes in strange forms Monkeys don’t know the difference Kit-Kats are for the hipsters Talking a little too loud about mustaches Listening to music that nobody knew Grouping around vegan lunch tables They would break off one by one When another clique accepted them Anything made by ***** Wonka Was a favorite of the kids who Knew who they were and Weren’t ashamed After all, what does candy say About any of us Clothes and shoes Were only disguises To hide us from the world we Desperately wanted to fit into If you had a Five Star notebook Started mattering a lifetime too soon When I step into the convenience store I picture the kids that I know Because of the candy they ate I regret having such a sweet tooth To pick apart kids’ lives With nothing to satisfy the bitter After-taste of social humiliation

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Mar 23, 2013

Mar 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC

Reese’s Pieces are for people who Are used to picking up the pieces Of broken hearts But they still want to make it A good experience Smiles that look like peanut butter And kisses that taste like chocolate Butterfingers are for the kids who Are used to being picked last for Everything except to cheat off of In math class They’ve grown accustomed to Not being thought of Popular kids like the M&Ms; Because in the end What else do they have except For the stories of muses And the parties they attended One-by-one they picked apart Everyone who didn’t act just like them Pop Rocks are terrible and So are Peppermint Patties Crunch bars and 100 Grand’s Made the jocks think they would actually Go somewhere and do something With their lives Hope comes in strange forms Monkeys don’t know the difference Kit-Kats are for the hipsters Talking a little too loud about mustaches Listening to music that nobody knew Grouping around vegan lunch tables They would break off one by one When another clique accepted them Anything made by ***** Wonka Was a favorite of the kids who Knew who they were and Weren’t ashamed After all, what does candy say About any of us Clothes and shoes Were only disguises To hide us from the world we Desperately wanted to fit into If you had a Five Star notebook Started mattering a lifetime too soon When I step into the convenience store I picture the kids that I know Because of the candy they ate I regret having such a sweet tooth To pick apart kids’ lives With nothing to satisfy the bitter After-taste of social humiliation

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Craving has begun They taste so freaking good dude It's snowing on Mt. Fuji

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Mar 19, 2015

Mar 19, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC

Butterfingers and Eggo Waffles (Haiku)

Craving has begun They taste so freaking good dude It's snowing on Mt. Fuji

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It’s not much, I mean, but uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers slippery as my tongue, here did you drop something, are you sure? cause my thump-thumping heart dropped so hard to the floor when it knew you were near that it bounced right back up right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra, only to dissipate and erupt into Truth the literal and the metaphorical allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way all Nine symphonies played simultaneously would look sedimentary, like a cheesecake when I first saw you, something shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire in the eyes of one woman, that’s all all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive if there’s nothing left when Cthulu comes alive, I hope at least I’ll get to talk to you at a party like, once, where we’ll mix some more mythologies Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how I could show you how Saraswati makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your **** and finding it satisfactory will whisk you away somewhere better How’s that last part sound to you, eh? there’s not much left to waste in the techno age of “nothing in moderation,” with all our degradation, defamation, discrimination, and mild inflammation caused by nonspecific anxiety medications in our nation of constant false elation, so my point is time the one thing we got left to waste is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but I wouldn’t mind killing some of that, with you Let’s blow this pop stand and go hunting.

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Mar 23, 2013

Mar 23, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC

hunting for myths

It’s not much, I mean, but uh, nothing, sorry, man I got butterfingers slippery as my tongue, here did you drop something, are you sure? cause my thump-thumping heart dropped so hard to the floor when it knew you were near that it bounced right back up right where it goes, then straight out my crown chakra, only to dissipate and erupt into Truth the literal and the metaphorical allegorical nebulas that resonate in full high-definition colour the way all Nine symphonies played simultaneously would look sedimentary, like a cheesecake when I first saw you, something shifted in my horoscope with the same scope and scale of a modern Greek myth – Prometheus rising, fire in the eyes of one woman, that’s all all Aphrodite could gather up—fix it to the mainstay, Odysseus let’s get to it, in siren seas, eating weeds to survive if there’s nothing left when Cthulu comes alive, I hope at least I’ll get to talk to you at a party like, once, where we’ll mix some more mythologies Once Inana birthed the world, and Spider Woman showed her how I could show you how Saraswati makes music, and old Bacchus stays on his feet Care to play my Isis? If that makes me Osiris then drown me, chop me up. Throw my body to Mr. Lucifer; the Morrigan will come to inspect your **** and finding it satisfactory will whisk you away somewhere better How’s that last part sound to you, eh? there’s not much left to waste in the techno age of “nothing in moderation,” with all our degradation, defamation, discrimination, and mild inflammation caused by nonspecific anxiety medications in our nation of constant false elation, so my point is time the one thing we got left to waste is time, and I’m a dedicated pacifist, but I wouldn’t mind killing some of that, with you Let’s blow this pop stand and go hunting.

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my hands reach for the strings but i have butterfingers, and i hesitate too much another missed chance, another lost opportunity i wanted to tell you first the confession was sitting on my tongue but it burned down my cowardly throat instead every time, the acceptance settles in my heart heavy, like a small weight on my chest at least i can carry my regrets without anyone seeing go ahead, keep the lights shining on me as i dance with someone who deserves better who should have received a whole world but if you look closely, all i had to offer was an arm to hold and a smile for the pictures when we needed to pose for my whole world was already in someone else's arms

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Apr 8, 2021

Apr 8, 2021 at 11:35 PM UTC

too late... again

my hands reach for the strings but i have butterfingers, and i hesitate too much another missed chance, another lost opportunity i wanted to tell you first the confession was sitting on my tongue but it burned down my cowardly throat instead every time, the acceptance settles in my heart heavy, like a small weight on my chest at least i can carry my regrets without anyone seeing go ahead, keep the lights shining on me as i dance with someone who deserves better who should have received a whole world but if you look closely, all i had to offer was an arm to hold and a smile for the pictures when we needed to pose for my whole world was already in someone else's arms

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The earth is getting warmer, the ice are melting, the polar bears are endangered, mermaids are not real, my dad's never getting clean, you'll never drive two hours to bring me Butterfingers, you'll never listen to the songs I send you, you don't know my middle name, I feel like I have to beg to be with you, you'll never read this poem because it's so tiny and insignificant, and my heart's going to break any day now but I'd still ask you to pick up the pieces for me.

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Apr 7, 2016

Apr 7, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC

The earth is getting warmer, the ice are melting, the polar bears are endangered, mermaids are not real, my dad's never getting clean, you'll never drive two hours to bring me Butterfingers, you'll never listen to the songs I send you, you don't know my middle name, I feel like I have to beg to be with you, you'll never read this poem because it's so tiny and insignificant, and my heart's going to break any day now but I'd still ask you to pick up the pieces for me.

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Happy Halloween Trick or treats at the front door, give them candy, but they want more. I put poison in their candy bar, razors in their apple will leave a scar. Tired of hearing, the ringing of my bell, all these **** kids can go to hell. Putting tacks in their Milky Way, don't they know candy causes tooth decay. Even with the lights off, they still knock, I hate every kid on this **** block. I give them lint from my dryer, their stupid costumes, I light on fire. I put pennies in their pillow case, some kids so ugly, don't need masks on face. I smile at their moms, standing on the sidewalk, all the hot ones, I can't help but gawk. When they say trick or treat, I make them lick my smelly feet. Putting pins in their Baby Ruth, no longer will they have a sweet tooth. Putting nails in their peanut butter Twix, I have a big bag filled with rotten tricks. I put Anthrax in their Snickers, on the Kit Kat i cover with chiggers. Three Musketeers are filled with staples, Butterfingers have splinters from wooden tables. Naughty kids get a bag of my **** from the toilet, that I often sit. Maybe next year they will learn, or I'll give them ashes from their parents urn. Sometimes I scare them and make them beg, their so scared, you can see *** running down their leg. I've even given left overs from the fridge, all the maggots make their bodies twitch. Next Halloween, if I'm not in jail, I will urinate in every candy pail.

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Oct 31, 2013

Oct 31, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween Trick or treats at the front door, give them candy, but they want more. I put poison in their candy bar, razors in their apple will leave a scar. Tired of hearing, the ringing of my bell, all these **** kids can go to hell. Putting tacks in their Milky Way, don't they know candy causes tooth decay. Even with the lights off, they still knock, I hate every kid on this **** block. I give them lint from my dryer, their stupid costumes, I light on fire. I put pennies in their pillow case, some kids so ugly, don't need masks on face. I smile at their moms, standing on the sidewalk, all the hot ones, I can't help but gawk. When they say trick or treat, I make them lick my smelly feet. Putting pins in their Baby Ruth, no longer will they have a sweet tooth. Putting nails in their peanut butter Twix, I have a big bag filled with rotten tricks. I put Anthrax in their Snickers, on the Kit Kat i cover with chiggers. Three Musketeers are filled with staples, Butterfingers have splinters from wooden tables. Naughty kids get a bag of my **** from the toilet, that I often sit. Maybe next year they will learn, or I'll give them ashes from their parents urn. Sometimes I scare them and make them beg, their so scared, you can see *** running down their leg. I've even given left overs from the fridge, all the maggots make their bodies twitch. Next Halloween, if I'm not in jail, I will urinate in every candy pail.

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Sometimes Things build up and get knocked down Sometimes I can't hold on to the cliff My hands slip off and I look at the water below Sometimes the world looks too tough The dirt is frozen And the shovel won't go through I try to hang on when it gets too difficult But sometimes I go over the edge My fingertips are slathered in the butter that fills me with self-hatred And fear Fear is a lion threatens to swallow me whole bares its teeth and looks me in the eye I run in every direction but he's always there And I can't get free Sometimes The world is too much But I stand strong And bury my feet- just my feet- in the ground and stand up tall

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Dec 14, 2015

Dec 14, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC

Sometimes Things build up and get knocked down Sometimes I can't hold on to the cliff My hands slip off and I look at the water below Sometimes the world looks too tough The dirt is frozen And the shovel won't go through I try to hang on when it gets too difficult But sometimes I go over the edge My fingertips are slathered in the butter that fills me with self-hatred And fear Fear is a lion threatens to swallow me whole bares its teeth and looks me in the eye I run in every direction but he's always there And I can't get free Sometimes The world is too much But I stand strong And bury my feet- just my feet- in the ground and stand up tall

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See, I once read somewhere that every moment is a poem -- if you just hold it right. So I'm trying to hold this moment right, but there's really no formula to this, is there? A poet can hold these moments right, right? No. A poet can't hold a moment. He can only pass his butterfingers through it and watch the moment fade into the past. He tries to make it last but nothing lasts forever, so he makes up the rest by drawing out words from his soul because his soul has better memory better holding than he does, and he knows it. So, you see, a poem is not a moment that was held right. A moment, a moment in itself is a poem. A poem that was seen right.

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Sep 22, 2013

Sep 22, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC

My fingers are of butter

See, I once read somewhere that every moment is a poem -- if you just hold it right. So I'm trying to hold this moment right, but there's really no formula to this, is there? A poet can hold these moments right, right? No. A poet can't hold a moment. He can only pass his butterfingers through it and watch the moment fade into the past. He tries to make it last but nothing lasts forever, so he makes up the rest by drawing out words from his soul because his soul has better memory better holding than he does, and he knows it. So, you see, a poem is not a moment that was held right. A moment, a moment in itself is a poem. A poem that was seen right.

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Chapter One: Bozo & Bonzo The Goatman was a fat guy who lived in the old part of town where everything looked tired. No one around there cared very much about anything. There were two bums who liked to hang around the train tracks over there. We started calling them Bozo and Bonzo. Bonzo didn't mind because he loved The Who and Bonzo happened to be his favorite drummer. Bozo did mind and would curse and spit at us whenever we'd say the word. He told us to call him by his real name (Charlie) but we liked Bozo a lot more. Anyway, my friend Lawrence and I would give Bonzo and Bozo a quarter each for a recounting of a recent sighting of the Goatman. One day after school we decided to drop by the tracks to see if they were around. They were, and they were both **** drunk and stunk like wet dogs do after they come inside from the rain. Bonzo asked me if I wanted a swig from his flask and I shook my head no. "Fuckin' ***** I knew you weren't the real deal," Bonzo muttered as he swirled his flask in a circle, as if it were an expensive martini. "I don't need your nasty backwash, thanks," I shot back. "We want more information on the Goatman," Lawrence broke in. "We have quarters," I added. Lawrence took the 50 cents from his pocket and extended his arm. Bozo quickly snatched up the coins and laughed. "You two hot for the Goatman or somethin'?" "We're not gay for the Goatman," Lawrence says. "But we're definitely gay for finding out who the **** he actually is." Bozo laughed some more but it came out as a hearty, borderline obese and drunk gargle/scoff. "We saw him yesterday, believe it or not. I was takin' a **** in a bush across the street from him and he came amblin' out. I was too drunk to care much at the time but lookin' back, I shoulda been more scared," Bozo looked down at the worn boots on his feet and kicked the dirt. "He was carryin' a tiny plastic shoppin' bag, all neatly tied up. After he went back inside I crept over and took it and just fuckin' ran, man," Bozo seemed distressed just verbalizing his encounter. "So what was inside?" I knew he was getting to it, but I needed to know. "Just some candy wrapper. Nothin' but candy wrapper. Butterfingers', 3 Musketeers', Pay Days. You name it, he ate it," Bozo completely broke down laughing this time. I'm coming to realize he is the sort of person who thinks he's funnier than anyone else seems to.

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Jan 11, 2017

Jan 11, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC

The Goatman's Motto

Chapter One: Bozo & Bonzo The Goatman was a fat guy who lived in the old part of town where everything looked tired. No one around there cared very much about anything. There were two bums who liked to hang around the train tracks over there. We started calling them Bozo and Bonzo. Bonzo didn't mind because he loved The Who and Bonzo happened to be his favorite drummer. Bozo did mind and would curse and spit at us whenever we'd say the word. He told us to call him by his real name (Charlie) but we liked Bozo a lot more. Anyway, my friend Lawrence and I would give Bonzo and Bozo a quarter each for a recounting of a recent sighting of the Goatman. One day after school we decided to drop by the tracks to see if they were around. They were, and they were both **** drunk and stunk like wet dogs do after they come inside from the rain. Bonzo asked me if I wanted a swig from his flask and I shook my head no. "Fuckin' ***** I knew you weren't the real deal," Bonzo muttered as he swirled his flask in a circle, as if it were an expensive martini. "I don't need your nasty backwash, thanks," I shot back. "We want more information on the Goatman," Lawrence broke in. "We have quarters," I added. Lawrence took the 50 cents from his pocket and extended his arm. Bozo quickly snatched up the coins and laughed. "You two hot for the Goatman or somethin'?" "We're not gay for the Goatman," Lawrence says. "But we're definitely gay for finding out who the **** he actually is." Bozo laughed some more but it came out as a hearty, borderline obese and drunk gargle/scoff. "We saw him yesterday, believe it or not. I was takin' a **** in a bush across the street from him and he came amblin' out. I was too drunk to care much at the time but lookin' back, I shoulda been more scared," Bozo looked down at the worn boots on his feet and kicked the dirt. "He was carryin' a tiny plastic shoppin' bag, all neatly tied up. After he went back inside I crept over and took it and just fuckin' ran, man," Bozo seemed distressed just verbalizing his encounter. "So what was inside?" I knew he was getting to it, but I needed to know. "Just some candy wrapper. Nothin' but candy wrapper. Butterfingers', 3 Musketeers', Pay Days. You name it, he ate it," Bozo completely broke down laughing this time. I'm coming to realize he is the sort of person who thinks he's funnier than anyone else seems to.

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Message, Dragon-Man, and Lady of the Night left the Dragon Tower to take care. Message asked, Where will I sleep, and Lady of the Night asked, What do you mean where? Just go back to where you came, and Message yelled, Where I came from was destroyed. Dragon-Man soon realized that more tact would soon have to be employed. You can stay with me, and both Message and Lady of the Night looked at him without stop. Yeah I have a fully furnished two-bedroom, very comfortable co-op. Message wearily asked Is this punishment for when I brought you in front of the Federation. Dragon-Man said, No, consider it a very special Dahomeyian Rulership invitation. Message desperately looked at Lady of the Night, but Lady of the Night looked away. Message then said, Alright, I guess I could stay at you coupe for a couple of days. Lady of the Night left, and Dragon-Man and Message walked onto a field. Where is this, Message asked, and Dragon-Man replied, it is one of my hidden skills. I play as part of a football league for fun, and we need an extra teammate. Message enthusiastically shouted, I wish to play this toe-spectacle so it will be great. Soon Dragon-Man’s team came, and he was simply Jonathan Maine, Quarterback. But Message’s happiness did not equal her football skills, all of them she lacked. Jonathan threw her passes, and she dropped each and every one. The one pass she caught, was in the other teams end zone as an interception. Message huffed at the end of the game, This toe spectacle is silly. Dragon-Man said, From someone who holds a Dahomeyian Rulership, really? You have the Death-Hand, but your Death-Hand is made up of Butterfingers. Message stared at him with a glare that could melt ice, and made that look linger. They soon pulled up to the co-op, and Message and Dragon-Man were walking. He was surprised at the newfound ease, with which they were talking. Message and Dragon-Man arrived at the door, and Dragon-Man held it for she. He figured there was no harm in displaying a little chivalry. The door was still opened, he was puzzled but thought that it was nothing. Little did he know that on the other side, someone’s heart was racing. So as Dragon-Man took the door and stepped inside, something happened that made him feel weak. Because Message turned around and kissed him, and that kiss was not on the cheek.

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Mar 8, 2018

Mar 8, 2018 at 4:38 PM UTC

You have the Death-Hand, but that Death-Hand is made up of Butterfingers.

Message, Dragon-Man, and Lady of the Night left the Dragon Tower to take care. Message asked, Where will I sleep, and Lady of the Night asked, What do you mean where? Just go back to where you came, and Message yelled, Where I came from was destroyed. Dragon-Man soon realized that more tact would soon have to be employed. You can stay with me, and both Message and Lady of the Night looked at him without stop. Yeah I have a fully furnished two-bedroom, very comfortable co-op. Message wearily asked Is this punishment for when I brought you in front of the Federation. Dragon-Man said, No, consider it a very special Dahomeyian Rulership invitation. Message desperately looked at Lady of the Night, but Lady of the Night looked away. Message then said, Alright, I guess I could stay at you coupe for a couple of days. Lady of the Night left, and Dragon-Man and Message walked onto a field. Where is this, Message asked, and Dragon-Man replied, it is one of my hidden skills. I play as part of a football league for fun, and we need an extra teammate. Message enthusiastically shouted, I wish to play this toe-spectacle so it will be great. Soon Dragon-Man’s team came, and he was simply Jonathan Maine, Quarterback. But Message’s happiness did not equal her football skills, all of them she lacked. Jonathan threw her passes, and she dropped each and every one. The one pass she caught, was in the other teams end zone as an interception. Message huffed at the end of the game, This toe spectacle is silly. Dragon-Man said, From someone who holds a Dahomeyian Rulership, really? You have the Death-Hand, but your Death-Hand is made up of Butterfingers. Message stared at him with a glare that could melt ice, and made that look linger. They soon pulled up to the co-op, and Message and Dragon-Man were walking. He was surprised at the newfound ease, with which they were talking. Message and Dragon-Man arrived at the door, and Dragon-Man held it for she. He figured there was no harm in displaying a little chivalry. The door was still opened, he was puzzled but thought that it was nothing. Little did he know that on the other side, someone’s heart was racing. So as Dragon-Man took the door and stepped inside, something happened that made him feel weak. Because Message turned around and kissed him, and that kiss was not on the cheek.

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My head feels like it’s holding a $100,00 vase that weighs 100 pounds with my slippery butter fingers and I haven’t been to the gym in weeks and my arms are getting tired

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Dec 4, 2017

Dec 4, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC

My head feels like it’s holding a $100,00 vase that weighs 100 pounds with my slippery butter fingers and I haven’t been to the gym in weeks and my arms are getting tired

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cue music, don't ever lose the plot because you've got butterfingers.

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Jan 30, 2022

Jan 30, 2022 at 8:57 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Catch a few and drop a few

cue music, don't ever lose the plot because you've got butterfingers.

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Tweezers buzz "butterfingers" and bulbous sneezer that is touched by a feather to make it sneeze and tickle the funnybone

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Feb 17, 2024

Feb 17, 2024 at 3:40 PM UTC

Tweezers buzz "butterfingers" and bulbous sneezer that is touched by a feather to make it sneeze and tickle the funnybone

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Hello poetry is public matters Id say because I walk this streetlamp eating nutty butterfingers total blown down deeper than the throat young yella bone chicanos can fap maniacally as ***** ***** dancers watch me much much munch. I am Hello Poetry yet Id **** a microphone in the closet because my eggcrates ache grunge album that do not belong to Yyclef. I lied **** head but butter me up buttery enough that my under pants don't snag my inchy tagged and tickled gnome. "Oh Underpant we ****** Old Gregs crack pipes he leaves on cold countertops this month for this be Off season." I weep. Why not my pans or my pun tease these ******* growing mickey mouse thunb prints before my nuts become cheese. Good greaf I'ffy if me sneechy ***** beach teacher teaching toddler that the fingers thumper. Thump my thumb. Pinterest my buns before I *** critters all in tune to teepee creaking creeps kitchen chicken finger fetching fists before *** educari gets carry on that vibes to Marshals mashed potato. Mathers you do matter much. I love the gleam of your crust. Tears up to the Beautiful song that becomes songs and weeps once more.

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Jun 10, 2019

Jun 10, 2019 at 12:18 PM UTC

Donkey **** Tazers

Hello poetry is public matters Id say because I walk this streetlamp eating nutty butterfingers total blown down deeper than the throat young yella bone chicanos can fap maniacally as ***** ***** dancers watch me much much munch. I am Hello Poetry yet Id **** a microphone in the closet because my eggcrates ache grunge album that do not belong to Yyclef. I lied **** head but butter me up buttery enough that my under pants don't snag my inchy tagged and tickled gnome. "Oh Underpant we ****** Old Gregs crack pipes he leaves on cold countertops this month for this be Off season." I weep. Why not my pans or my pun tease these ******* growing mickey mouse thunb prints before my nuts become cheese. Good greaf I'ffy if me sneechy ***** beach teacher teaching toddler that the fingers thumper. Thump my thumb. Pinterest my buns before I *** critters all in tune to teepee creaking creeps kitchen chicken finger fetching fists before *** educari gets carry on that vibes to Marshals mashed potato. Mathers you do matter much. I love the gleam of your crust. Tears up to the Beautiful song that becomes songs and weeps once more.

Continue reading...