"crummy" poems
My tummy needs a yummy,
Like a plummy tasty gummy.
I'm in a slummy feeling crummy,
Give me something in my tummy.
Please don't treat me like a scummy,
And don't look at me like a dummy.
I don't want to drink a rummy,
But a yummy in my tummy.
Mommy can I get a yummy,
I don't want to starve my tommy.
Please offer me some plummy tasty gummy.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes.
A liar goes in rags.
A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars.
Aliar looks 'em in the eye
And lies to a woman,
Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool.
And he is an old liar; we know him many years back.
A liar lies to nations.
A liar lies to the people.
A liar takes the blood of the people
And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie,
A laugh in his neck,
A lie in his mouth.
And this liar is an old one; we know him many years.
He is straight as a dog's hind leg.
He is straight as a corkscrew.
He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight.
The tongue of a man is tied on this,
On the liar who lies to nations,
The liar who lies to the people.
The tongue of a man is tied on this
And ends: To hell with 'em all.
To hell with 'em all.
It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer,
Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo,
Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy,
Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber.
The liars met where the doors were locked.
They said to each other: Now for war.
The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
Behind their doors away from the mob.
And the guns did a job that nicked off millions.
The guns blew seven million off the map,
The guns sent seven million west.
Seven million shoving up the daisies.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
The liars who lie to nations.
And now
Out of the butcher's job
And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned,
Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts,
Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were.
Let us run the world again, us, us.
Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again.
So I hear The People talk.
I hear them tell each other:
Let the strong men be ready.
Let the strong men watch.
Let your wrists be cool and your head clear.
Let the liars get their finish,
The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again
To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again.
So I hear The People tell each other:
Look at to-day and to-morrow.
Fix this clock that nicks off millions
When The Liars say it's time.
Take things in your own hands.
To hell with 'em all,
The liars who lie to nations,
The liars who lie to The People.
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“Exams are important don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise. People will try telling you that they don’t matter in the great scheme of things
“There is more to life than exams Lisa. It isn’t the end of the world if you don’t obtain the grades to get into university” mum said.
This is all ******** I’ve no intention of spending my life flipping burgers in some crummy burger bar. Do you know they have the cheek to call these places restaurants?! Problem is strictly between you and I, you won’t let it go any further will you? Promise, cross your heart and hope to die? Well as you only have my first name and it would be impossible to trace me I’ll let you into a little secret. The truth is that I am not academically gifted. Don’t get me wrong I try. No one tries harder than me. I’ve spent weekends huddled over my books cramming for my exams, “Lisa no mates that’s me” but it goes in one ear and comes out the other. I just can’t remember things, head like a sieve thats me!
Well here I am now in my room at uni. You should have seen my mum’s face when I got the grades. There she stood her mouth gaping open like a stranded fish. Quite comical really. Did I say that all my hard work paid off? Well it wasn’t that difficult for an 18-year-old bomb shell like me to ****** the head master and get my hands on the exam papers prior to the examination. Perhaps academic qualifications aren’t everything after all”.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Balloons are round,
They make my day.
Up in the sky
They bounce and sway.
Balloons are bouncy,
and they squeak loud,
But if you pop them
You draw a crowd.
Some don't like balloons.
I think that that's sad.
But to each his own,
So said my dad.
But look, now I ramble.
So here I'll sign off.
Enjoy this crummy poem.
Or don't. Whatever.
... Rhyme? Nah...
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
Tucked away in my purse
Is the card you presented to me
On our one year anniversary
Inside you wrote,
"It's crummy for now,
but will get better. I love you."
I know what you meant,
That school and work
Had interfered with our time together,
That after you get that degree
Our once or twice a week visits
Will become a memory.
But that's not why
I'm carrying around this
Anniversary card.
I want to believe that
Everything else crummy
Will get better too,
No matter how much I doubt it.
I try to keep this card close
And hang on to the hope
Penned by your hand.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
It’s about the American dream
To make more than you need
Through corporate greed
And pyramid schemes,
So I guess I’m not asleep
Since I eat rice and beans
In a crummy C.F.
Apartment,
Or what’s left of that
Ten by ten compartment
I can barely afford,
Like the ******
Degree that was supposed
To reward my hard effort
By leading me toward
A corner office
Or something
Like that
I should desire,
But **** it,
Let’s get higher,
I’m getting bored,
And my heart is heavy,
And I’ve been
Forsaken
By the country that
Bred me
Yet expects me
To slap on some flak
And attack
Fathers and sons and brothers
In Iraq
Over nothing
But ideological
Fluff
And political stuffing,
It’s nothing
It’s nothing
It’s nothing
It’s just not worth
The time or frustration
To engage in
This nation’s
Procreation
Of condemnation
Of logical reason,
Though reasoning
Lies not in the
Eye of the reasoner
Or that of the reasoned,
It’s gotta be easier
Than achieving
Appeasement
Through please
And leasing
Thank yous
To random
Strangers,
But if
You believe
They, like you,
Are human
Then the danger
Is fleeting,
Cuz they’re feeling
The same feelings,
The sane feelings of
The chronically
Sure,
The always right,
Everything in its
Right place,
Yea I know Tommy,
I must endure
And try to say
I should try to save
The knaves,
But life’s so easy
As a slave,
You buy your
Goods
And pave the way
For impoverished hoods
And hoodwinked
Majorities
Who’ve already
Made
The sacrifices
Necessary
For the necessary
To get paid,
Hope you did some good
With that bogus bonus
Mr. Suit and tie
And perfect life
With the plastic wife
And bank account
You’ll never drain,
No matter how many
Times you make it rain
On upscale hookers,
It runs too deep
To keep all to your
Selfish selves,
But I guess it’s our
Faults we don’t wear
The leadership caps
Cuz we should’ve pulled
Ourselves up by our
******* boot straps
And made something of
Ourselves, right?
Those that deserve
To make the big bucks
Make it happen, right?
Time for the forgotten *****
to put up a fight.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:26 PM UTC
Maybe I will just watch the movie alone.
Maybe I will just make the rolls and the pie.
Maybe I can sit here and list off what I am thankful for
Or maybe I won't.
Once again you've ruined it for me.
Once again you are in my head telling me
I ****
I'm the worst daughter anyone could ask for.
Well, congrats! I'm alone tomorrow.
You got your wish.
Are you thankful for that?
Do you think about me?
Do you wonder what I am doing?
Do you think each time you take a bite
Of the crummy pie crust you make
How you wish I was there to make it?
No.
I bet you don't.
It feels like to me you are glad.
Glad I'm not there
To embarrass you once again
With my colorful clothes
With my loud voice
Saying all the wrong things.
Well I hope that empty chair
Stares you in the face
As you sit down with your fake happy family
And you miss me.
And as you go around the table
Asking what everyone is thankful for
I wonder if you are man enough to say
You are thankful for the boring silence
The lack of arguments
The dull colors
For the extra space.
Because I'm not there.
And you made it so.
But just so you know:
I am thankful.
I am thankful for who I am.
I am thankful I have the people in my life that I do.
I am thankful you taught me what you did.
I am thankful I get some silence.
I am thankful that despite everything
You are still my dad.
And I know we don't speak.
And I know you will never read my words.
But maybe
Just maybe
One day you will let me back in
And you will realize
How you are not thankful
That you let me go.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
I Love The Discipline…
I love the discipline of form and meters.
Crummy, yummy twitterings
To turn a base, base/superficial
Into something interstitially aesthetic, helpful.
What it is that gives this gift I’ll never know,
But there it is – a discipline addictive;
A dictation from below;
Not just adding to an increase in IQ,
Nor the storehouse of expressing,
Nor of word when crossword puzzling;
No, a serendipity with aspects heavenly.
A guzzling from an endless well of secret knowledge,
Sacred knowledge for the few.
But earthy too.
Anyway, as we of poet’s tree like saying,
When you find an impulse that you can’t resist,
Don’t, you hear, anti-resist,
But kissed by It
Continue till the whole caboodle* springs your noodle**
And the lights go out.
I Love The Discipline…4.13.2018 The Processes; Creative, Thinking, Meditative III, Arlene Corwin
*caboodle |kəˈboōdl| (also kaboodle)
noun (in phrase the whole caboodle or the whole kit and caboodle) informal
the whole number or quantity of people or things in question.
ORIGIN mid 19th cent. (originally U.S.): perhaps from the phrase kit and boodle, in the same sense (see kit 1 , boodle ).
** noodle 2
noun informal
a stupid or silly person.
• a person's head.
New Oxford American Dictionary
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
We’ll light the wedding candle
Each year upon this night.
Remembering why as years speed by
We first stood to make this light.
Not for a love that’s ever true
Or a smile that ever cheers.
Not for the sick or crummy days
Or to share and conquer fears.
It’s for the days we forget to love
and when aggravations start to weigh.
It’s for the times we’ve both ******* up
But have chosen to love again a new way.
The candle will burn and the wax melt.
Someday, the wick will sputter and gutter out.
But it’s just a reminder and can be replaced
As long as we remember what it’s all about.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.
I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******** with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months
than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
I DON'T know how he came,
shambling, dark, and strong.
He stood in the city and told men:
My people are fools, my people are young and strong, my people must learn, my people are terrible workers and fighters.
Always he kept on asking: Where did that blood come from?
They said: You for the fool killer, you for the ***** hatch and a necktie party.
They hauled him into jail.
They sneered at him and spit on him,
And he wrecked their jails,
Singing, "God **** your jails,"
And when he was most in jail
Crummy among the crazy in the dark
Then he was most of all out of jail
Shambling, dark, and strong,
Always asking: Where did that blood come from?
They laid hands on him
And the fool killers had a laugh
And the necktie party was a go, by God.
They laid hands on him and he was a goner.
They hammered him to pieces and he stood up.
They buried him and he walked out of the grave, by God,
Asking again: Where did that blood come from?
1.7k
For my brother, it meant everything
to stretch out and press
his face against the pane
of candy stretched crystalline.
To take the path away from father
for me one step away from
step-mother,
baking our dreams into
crumbs we left on the floor.
We’ll trace them back
to the place between
lost and found,
once we’ve fulfilled
our parts,
he’d always tell me.
But he doesn’t understand,
and honestly when does he,
that we’ve been doomed
from the start.
There is no Gretel,
to stoke the logs,
close the grate and latch
no heroine to fit the story’s need
there's only me
So when the witch comes back
she’ll ask
has Hansel truly grown fat?
a little pinch of the skin
an inadvertent test to see
which one of us should win?
It’s always an offering
always a suffering
always a surrender
of what makes me, she
and Hansel truly him
But I don’t mind
filling this role
I know it’s what I was made for
half baked like the crumbs
in a crummy oven
the real Gretel’s long gone
so her understudy will do.
If Mother could bake one daughter
why not try to bake two?
The witch will say it’s time
and ask me to reach back far
to find a warmth she can't see
it’s really not that odd
to hear the words escape me:
"why don't you try,
it's utterly exhausting
always having to hide"
and besides
I always desperately wanted
someone to show me
And I’ll even smile
as the crackle burns for just awhile
Hansel holding my hand
my pigtails askew.
The crumbs, our true
parents,
eaten in the leaves.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
How many Someone’s lay planked on their waist and stare aimlessly at the candle’s flame?
Who of You is daring enough to close Your eyes and in space alone, simply drive- drive away?
The same Someone’s and Who’s-of-Who’s, on occasion holler at the moon with expectation of a bark back; or is God but a prestige to fools that We allow to wear Normal on Their crummy ******* name tags?
Sometime around Christmas there is a salivating peace, sifting downward on ordinary people, whom really don’t feel like being cold, you know?
This is me, rotting away on the carpet, a blanket’s blanky for the floor, just staring through the shutters on the vent below my brow; in the reality of it, I should probably schedule a spring cleaning…not for the vent folks.
You see- and I’m trying to be as casual as I can- I’m about to ******* pass out, you know what I’m saying?
This is that incredible moment where I’m the Bob Feller of dozing off, 9 innings of shut-eye talent, but at 2 or 3 in the morning…it looks as though I’m bringing in Mariano Rivera to close it out,
I can almost smell the scraps of mowed grass, kicking up from his cleats as he jogs closer to where home is; I never really find out if he makes it to the mound…
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
She was once a true love of mine
She treated me so kind
She came to me
when I was stuck
when my heart was dark
and shed
her loving light on me
She held me close
and
kissed my lips
brought
warmed wash clothes
and
******
to bathe away my pain.
When she was done with me
she moved me along
to
the crummy little apartment
by
the river
the perfect spot for me.
Life is lived
in chapters
one after the other
She once was a true love of mine.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
The prisoner, he is losing his precious eyesight, and he is quite glad
For years now, never had the chance to intrude,
The world he never knew.
To him, nothing left to see other than his crummy cell.
In rhyme, he prays every night
He asks for guidance and asked for peace
On unpainted walls he sees his reflection, dull and disturbing feats
In his flesh, there's a certain feeling he won't figure.
He is empty, lacks the soul, the will to go out side. The prisoner is actually a freeman. The prisoner is me.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
And as you look at yourself naked in the mirror
For the first time in months
Mulling over valleys of curves
Where other girls might find emptiness
Or the blush of acne
Where modest peach may be found
You begin to wonder - who spun the planets in their dance
And if this earth really wanted it -
Or if gravity's whimsy is really some mad beast
To which celestial beings are found
With zip-locked lips, tight, wide-eyed, forcing a smile
As they are twirled madly about -
As the stars watch their blood stained ballet from their ivory tower
Spewing spells of laughter in things called nebulae -
And as you look in the mirror
And gaze into the eyes of a girl who's seen
Thick and thin wrapping her bones like a trend
You ask yourself if the earth threw a tantrum
When it was handed it's stack of seven,
It's crummy hand,
If today it is still cursed to watch
A stumbling, shuffling race
Breeding life just to slaughter it,
And not thinking about where they plant their eucalyptus trees,
Blazing trails with their talk of taxes and alcohol-stench -
If the earth is left to bellow in the currents of it's winds
Or dream wistfully of the moon in its tides
If the whispers of the breeze
And the uproar of the hurricanes
Was just a way to say
WHATS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
If it ever cursed it's luck from the draw
To burden beasts of salt and volumes of soil,
If it cried and howled to the stars above
When it wasn't given it's way.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
interfere journey body sweaty mastermind dust
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inhale shale bond reason oxidize crummy
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ready curve encrypt slime minus shell heady set
flow sacrifice\
believe alter oceanic shelf killing part of Hell split Earth lent
mayhem vent\
outspent wipe well being clean provoke Cain uphold Able
mean mug\
dump cornmeal unicorn convulsing mend restitution advertently
spiel indent\
hand over to pilot retribution intend empty zeal rummage
destitution\
Hasidic inside the writ spirit fly guide escape unravel ways of
savage\
lives out the side Pegasus soar glide abide Nein but fine rhyme
hymns\
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 8:51 PM UTC
If I painted a picture of you
I think I’d call it Daniel and his Favorite Cigarette
and I’d delay passing the sugar
because you couldn’t wait four more seconds
for your daughter to finish her story.
I would buy all of the newspapers in town
with the crummy headline *Fauster & Brown
Up in Sales for 3rd Week Straight* and burn them
all the way through to the sports section
just to watch your favorite team’s numbers
go up in flames. I would rewrite
all those Father’s Day cards, remove the empty seat
in the third row on the left from my poetry reading
that I had reserved, stop putting new batteries
in the remote when you complains. But of course
I won’t. I’ll just make a scene at Sunday brunch
after we finish saying prayers to my dead big brother
at his grave, that dash like a tattoo on my bones—
Yes, Dad, I could have worn a tie
but I like the fact that I still smell like yesterday
cause I know my brother will never know
the scent of tomorrow. I will only curse
between sips of coffee and I’ll stroke my sisters hair
so she knows at least someone has been listening
these past ten years.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Purple skies and wounded hearts
Leaves drifting away
Growing trees and yellow planes
Night turning to day
Untuned cellos, crumbs on sheets
Grass blades in between toes
Aerosol cans and crooked shelves
Snowflakes that stay on the nose
Purple you and wounded me
Us drifting away
Growing you and yellow me
No one wanting to stay
Untuned me, crummy you
Two scarred, translucent souls
Aerosol me and crooked you
I'm dying, but nobody knows.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 1:07 AM UTC
Inside fleshly plumbing
We hear humming
The voices of birds
In rapture of peace
Living a short life
Just like you and me
Crummy digestion
We cry against the wall
Screeching sleep
We awake to hear a call
Shattering your life
With a blinking thought
All too soon
We both are caught
We run pass the windy greens
In a maze
Remembering all the dreams
Lost in a grainy storm
Our thoughts subside.
We are gone
Obeying the orders
Programming our cognition
On an assignment not our own
Drifting on a mission
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 6:09 PM UTC
I'm writing this in the middle of the night,
when there's nothing to do but sleep,
but I'm not ready to forget about the world,
wandering through dreams that aren't mine to keep
and now I lay here,
thinking about passion,
and how we sometimes put it in a droor,
to make way for practicality,
until one day, we think of it no more
dreams have a way of wilting,
when they are left to collect dust.
they slowly ferment in regret,
they suffer from distrust.
so take these words with you,
in those moments of doubt,
when you find yourself in need of a steady hand,
when people tell you to buy a suit,
when they tell you to quit the band
though a small victory it might have been,
you've tasted greatness so far,
even if it was in a dimly lit room,
in some crummy little bar
don't write off your dreams,
don't discount your success
because the magic was there,
even if the crowds were not
I've said it before,
and I'll say it again,
your music is making the world a better place:
reminding me of the beauty,
making me forgot about the haste
so do yourself a favor,
do a kindness to the world,
stick it out and see what happens,
when your waking dreams unfurl
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 2:17 PM UTC
undo the rusty bolts
underlining
my frizzy hairline
the crummy ones that hold
volatile turmoil
within my scalp
the erratic lunacy
playing
with my aging brain
using the untangled strings
to jump rope
and play
sorrowful tunes
for the weeping
to harmonize
i want you
to stick your hands
in my heavy head
as you would
in a flower ***
freshly filled with soil
dig into the moist compound
with your pliable fingers
amend
the corruptive leakage
that toils
within my own deceit
i want you
to avidly turn
the soft claying matter
how ever you please
as you would
turn into roads
that lead you
running
straight to me
i want you
to breathe
igniting hope
born from the fumes
of cigarettes
you smoked insensibly
into the seeds
you wish to discard
in this potted cavity
i want you
to pour oceans
of poetic sentiments
tainted with gentle kindness
from those isolated tears
held back in the sockets
of your eyes
to water
my wilting corpse
so it may flourish
from your light reflecting gift
of life (you resurrect me)
i want you
to trust
in your
captivating presence
to make me
unintentionally smile
from your caress
will selflessly sprout
inflorescent buds
of rich purplish-blue flowers
with conspicuous green calyxes
and even though their coloring
is rather insignificant
and they can be easily overlooked
i want you
to know
that only you
hold the key
to this secret pasture
that
without you
there would not be
such garden
for us to hide
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
Made from paper & some ink but it's worth quite a lot
It effects those it touches & those it does not
It's the cause of arguments & fights
& not enough of it, then out go the lights
It's hard to believe it's not even alive
We use it to help us survive
It gets copied & distorted
& across seas, it's sometimes transported
When it arrives it's exchanged
To this different appearance
Large amounts might require a government clearance
It can ruin lives & destroys happiness
I know it's hard to believe this
People lose their houses without it
& others are just happy with the change in your pocket
It's really the reason for theft crimes
Just trying to get by in troubling times
Working for it never seems to stop
& still not enough is made to get all you need
Which limits how much you buy when you shop
Barely enough food for the mouths you feed
Leaving little left for you to pay that bill
Stress & worries soon to follow
& down your cheeks tears begin to spill
Now your account is way too low
We underestimated its true value
It's definitely the root of all evil
If you let it control you
It will never be shared equally
To all the people
Which us sad & crummy
Maybe it'll give you a luxurious life or maybe no life at all
& what the beast is known as is MONEY
Don't let it be your downfall
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.
Memories of Thanksgiving
flash upon the spoon
flipped over before me;
the plaid shirt
I was wearing,
the crummy salad I ate.
I see the look
in your eyes,
you were holding
back tears.
I couldn't contain mine.
Suddenly, flashbacks
of white powder
caked like snow upon
the jail cell bars.
I'm sitting in the corner
of a cold, empty house.
My eyes glazed over,
I haven't slept.
Write the good,
as well as the bad,
on the same page.
Both are equally
important
to the story.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"
(Another Crummy Acrostic)
T is for **** I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...
G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for ******* I posses the gift of ****
T is for ****** I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ****** My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...
F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...
A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...
This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.
*Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by: Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC