"diarrhoea" poems
She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
146.4k
Many people worry about their weight
In case it stops them ever getting a date
But gaining a few odd pounds is nothing
Just the result of a few days' greedy scoffing.
It's when you gain a couple of stones+,
And oozing fat smothers all your aching bones,
When your butts squelch against each other
Then you know you are a big fat mother.
But the cure for this is but a simple job:
You wire a padlock o'er your greedy gob.
Take daily laxatives and have no fear:
All will be relieved by constant diarrhoea.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
Though I never shagged you at all
You ****** the rhythm to ******* yourself
While those around you ate crow
They schlepped out of the cleavage
And they ********** into your crumpet
They ******* you on the rowing machine
And they copulated you **** your three *****
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never knowing who to stick it out to
When the ooze congeal from the top drawer
And I would have liked to have had carnal knowledge of you
But I was just a twit
Your cigarette lighter exploded spew out long before
Your whiff never blewout
Stiffness was sticky
The gristliest fat part you ever nibbled
Hollywood cobbled together a wizzofrog
And ******** was the corkage you greased
Even when you conked out
Oh the lubricator still molested you
All the skeletons had to jabber
Was that Marilyn was ***** flashy the starkers
Ta-ta Norma Drainpipe
from the virginal wombat in the twenty—second ghetto
Who smells you as meat as above par than scatological
Olé! than frank our Marilyn Monroe
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 4:17 PM UTC
Toilet paper toilet paper
Why do people in this time
Feel the need to stock up on toilet paper
What is the point of stocking up on toilet paper
That just proves there are a lot of ***** done in a day
People are buying 5 packs of 12 toilet paper, they must have diarrhoea or something
I personally think it is stupid
They say I gotta wipe my ***
About 56 times a day
**** me dead
If you want to have enough toilet paper in a week
STOP FUCKEN EATING
Because I don’t see the connection
With the carrona virus and toilet paper
People are just scared or stupid
Well, they are more stupid
Saying toilet paper toilet paper
We gotta have enough toilet paper
Gotta wipe me ***
Gotta make sure we don’t use our hands discusting
They are also trying to stock up on medications
Mainly a junkies thing though
The carrona virus hits me
Gotta have a Panadol
Or nurefen or Sudafed
Why the **** do people convert into being junkies
People sitting in the mall
Enjoying a high calorie lunch
With 17 undescribed medicine and 6 12 pack toilet rolls
The carrona virus can’t get us
What a bunch of crap
No, those people are news-scared junkies and drug junkies
When I say news-scared
I mean they hear we need toilet paper
So we buy six 12 packs of toilet paper
We are free from any virus
That comes our way
Athena doesn’t heal you if you be a ****** so why do they do it
I am in pain they say
I am in pain
No
They are not in pain
They are junkies and news-scared
Personally I had to buy paper towels to replace toilet paper
Hopefully that works
****** junkies
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 10:49 PM UTC
Adios England's Venus flytrap
May you ever overflow inside our rectums
You were the ornament that inserted itself
Where spunks were pelted to pieces
You ********** in the open air to our promontory
And you squirted to those inside ********
Now you reciprocate to Abraham's *****
And the black holes crack spew out your barber's pole
And it seems to me you tasted your *****
Like a cigarette lighter in the diarrhoea
Never drooping with knobs on the cherry lips
When the ooze congeal within
And your smells will always regurgitate here
Along England's juiciest blast—offs
Your cigarette lighter's exploded spew out long before
Your whiff ever go the whole hog
Voluptuousness we've jiggled
These frenzied wombs of time needing your clenched fist
This lava lamp we'll always get pregnant
For our breed's fair—haired brats
And even though we have a finger in
The clean breast seduces us to moistness
All our foghorns cannot ****
The ecstasy you stimulated us throughout the age groups
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
What is it really like to be old?
Read along, and you'll be told,
Well, there's spectacles and hearing aids,
Also along the way, by the way,
There's dentures in glasses,
Zimmers on greys who want to make passes,
Then there's incontinence aids, bad hips,
Appointments at medical specialists,
Then you're off to the pharmacists,
To get all your scripts,
Then there's the alphabet song,
Read along, read along,
A is for Arthritis,
B is for Bursitis,
C is for Constipation,
Always a grey consternation,
D is for Diarrhoea,
And no doctor wants to know ya!
Finally, Z is for the big sleep at the end,
No wonder geriatrics go round the bend,
Yes, greys, these are our golden years,
Have fun learning, no need for tears!
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
The verbal diarrhoea of a politician’s promises
Flows over a broken roof of dripping umbrellas
Hustings heckling hastening onset of pneumonia
Voters need every candidate to be seen and heard.
Un-hygienic kissing of babies and pressing the flesh
Flash avoiding fixed smile like toothpaste commercial
Thinks - one man one vote a bad idea by Election Day
I wonder does every candidate vote for themselves?
Tense wait as political pundits make newsless news
Oscar like performances as the winners are announced
Four-more-years in The Slough of Despond for the loser
The Olympian heights of triumph for the winner.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Yes! It's another Barry Hodges "Memories" poem!"
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session...
And now I lie back in sweet recollection
Of the many nights we spent in copulation
But how sad I am as, looking at the deserted bed,
I can still make out the stains of your dying turds.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Once i met a mummy
Whose pride got hurt real bad
He'd failed to reach the toilet
It got him pretty mad !
It must be quite frustrating
Being bandaged head to toe
And having to unwrap himself
Each time he needs to go
And then when he has finished
He has to wrap himself again
If he's got the diarrhoea
It must drive him insane !!
And if he doesn't make it
And he has to walk round wet
And he stands next to a heater
And The smell.. he wont forget
So if you meet a mummy
And he's groaning down at you
Be kind and show some sympathy
He's failed to reach the loo !
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 2:26 PM UTC
If you had diarrhoea
got caught short, took a ****
in that drawer where you keep all your cables
and bits tangled vociferously
then later discovered you needed
a spare micro usb,
so you had no choice
but to roll up your sleeves,
that would be this Monday
Jan 24, 2022
Jan 24, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
A "Memories" Poem from the great Barry Hodges' pen
I shall never forget our first date together,
How we wandered through the streets of Soho,
Gazing into the **** shop windows,
Laughing at the giant vibrators on display...
And later, a romantic meal in a French bistro,
Where the rules of hygiene were not
As strictly observed as might have been hoped for,
Promising a regurgitatory treat in store...
You ignored the startled eyes of our fellow diners
And brutally shoved your tongue in my mouth;
O how fiercely I slurped on it enthusiastically
Caressing it with my own mouth sausage...
I ****** and ****** and ****** and ******
And (oh joy!) I could taste the garlicky bits
'Twixt your gorgeous unwashed choppers;
How my underwear damply stretched out of shape...
I withdrew my probing tongue and kissed your cheek
Affectionately, yet trembling with rampant desire;
And I boldly licked a firm yellow-topped spot
With its previously observed black centre...
My huge uncontrollable lust conquered
The demands of demodé bourgeois good manners
And I sunk my incisors into that zitty beauty
Relishing the hard core waiting just for me therein...
The waiting staff were deeply impressed as I chewed
In rapturous sensual joyous contemplation
And you spluttered bloodily in loving agony
Your own mighty ****** fast approaching...
Oh what a foretaste of what was to come
When we repaired to my convenient bedsit
For an immensely gratifying triple bonk
Prior to a staggering mutual diarrhoea session.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Ringing ears
Drop dead silence
Revealing fears
Under the influence
Tired flesh
Mind awakened
Spirit shakened
Day is night
Night is day
Monologue conversations
In an overflowing mind
Personal revelations
Are harder to find
Verbal diarrhoea
Fitting nothing in criteria
Spreading like bacteria
Repressing hysteria
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
**** Morecraft said
about joining the Scouts
who used
the church hall
good venture
he said
we do things
tie knots
and learn
about nature
how to start a fire
with two bits of wood
and sing songs
around campfires
and so on he went
walking home from school
you wanting to join the scouts
like you wanted diarrhoea
listening half heartedly
thinking of what
was for tea
or what to do
after school
and where to go
and we learn how
to put up tents
**** added
the last straw
ok
you said
I’ll think about it
see you around
and so off he went
along Newington Butts
and you went down
the subway and along
whistling
hands in pockets
when you saw Ingrid
up ahead with bent shoulders
and lowered head
what’s up? you said
and she showed you
a tear
in her school dress
a rip in the side
showing
her white vest
my dad’ll **** me
(not quite you knew
but he’d beat her
black and blue)
what do I do?
she said crying
wiping her eyes
don’t go home
just yet
you said
my mum’ll sew it up
like new
we’ll go to
my place first
that’s what we’ll do
so you walked
up and out the subway
and across the bomb site
and up Meadow Row
(her mother or father
needn’t know)
and up the concrete stairs
to your flat and in
and you explained
to your mother
what was wrong
and she said she’d fix it
with needle and thread
and so Ingrid
took off the dress
and gave it
to your mother to sew
and sat there
in the sitting room
in her vest and underwear
fiddling with her fingers
looking around
the room shyly
arms and legs
carrying badges
of black and blue
go get Ingrid
a glass of Tizer
and biscuit
your mother said
and don’t gawk so
and so you went
to the kitchen
and poured
a glass of Tizer
and got a biscuit
from a tin
and took them in
Ingrid wide eyed said
thank you
and took the biscuit
and glass
and nibbled
and sipped
and you told her
about the scouts
and what
Morecraft said
about tents
and tying knots
and lighting fires
with sticks
and such
(not caring much)
and all the time
eyeing the bruises
and welts on legs
and arms
and your mother said
don’t stare so
at Ingrid in her
white( near grey)vest
and underwear
so you changed
the subject
to the cinema
about some cowboy film
where the good guy
twirls his gun
and goes pop pop pop
you said
and gets the baddies
dead
just like that
and how after
the boring bit
where he kisses a girl
he twirls
his gun again
(you need
to practice that)
and she listened
as she sipped her drink
and nibbled the biscuit
sitting there
with her badges
of blue and black
in her underwear
and a red line
across
her skinny back.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
being insulted by someone
of a trans-
status quo
classification
will never be enough
to mind, had i the pairing
to a higher tier of socialite endeavour -
to be debased with a fragrance of
a misuse of language
on a level of comprehension will
always place me steadied with placards
of 'hello, my name is Samauel'
well hello Samuel..
boiled herrings pan-fried readied for
a star wars sequel akin to rocky 7,
boxing-catchup K.O. no.31 -
an here the champ gives way to a chimpanzees'
worth of gurgled laughter -
readied speed at a Bronson's uppercut -
and we're too the readied ones
annex to the molars that might be considered
the chewing apparatus should
we not have juiced with bites as if a load's
worth of hammering was taken place:
chewing as if hammering, imagine
the cranium gush extract - it would be
like porridge if reverse due to diarrhoea!
flaky shit-bits and anaconda's suntan to measure up to;
well, there was the leather chair to mind
in terms of approving leisure activity as coercing
a carefree fortitude of futuristic investment -
mind you the loss of the Celtic vocabulary,
I.R.A. and the instigation of Anglo-Saxon
vocabulary to suppress the populace
of renegade Catholics or the twin Belfast known
as Glasgow - indeed Edinburgh remained
as much conservative as St. Andrew's would allow,
an extension of England, even with parliament
it was a Basildon of northern Essex...
scots among the multitude of accents usurped from
pole-dancing with kilts! Tartan su doku!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Look stranger.
I have been through more **** than an elephant's stable boy.
My **** stinks up rooms sometimes, and so many are polite to ignore the smell.
I appreciate that.
One time I ate the wrong stuff, and my **** got fired across a crowd, ruining everyone's night.
They hosed me down with diarrhoea, which I carry around too.
They had the right though. I don't blame them.
I went back to that place a year a later, and the **** smell came off me. They were really polite.
I appreciated that.
So stranger.
Please tell me if the **** I've been through gets spat on your plate.
Tell me if I'm making you uncomfortable with the smell.
And thank you for being polite.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 1:13 AM UTC
Ebola
Infections
Contact with
Body fluids
Blood
Saliva
Causes
Rashes,
Diarrhoea,
Fever,
Cough
It was small
But very clever
Attacks our immune system
Having high mortality rate
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
That is as good as it gets:
Mrs Hushbenway gazing
at herself in the mirror.
Her husband lies in bed
staring at her back; her
backside squatted on the
small stool of the dressing
table, her back ramrod straight,
her hair in a mess. She grimaces,
shows her teeth, licks her lips.
He takes in her fading pink
nightie, the dark pink *******
showing through, the way she
sits there gazing at her face,
the way she grimaces. Enough
to sink ships, he thinks, not saying.
He imagines she’s some other,
some younger specimen, sitting
there, slim figure, maybe naked,
brushing her hair. She is talking
now, he assumes it is small talk,
some neighbour’s husband or
kid or some new baby on the way,
or some dress she’d seen, but not
in her size. He thinks of the old days,
the days of rough and tumble, times
of getting in late, falling into bed
and having it off before deep sleep.
She’s asking him a question, no
idea what, he tries to bluff, to pretend
he had not heard too well. She
turns and stares, her big eyes, cow
like, brown and liquidy as diarrhoea,
search him, brings on the pretend
fear, the good husband pose. Ah yes,
now he’s heard, knows the answer,
what she’d want him to say and he
does and she turns satisfied and brushes
her locks, having lost her looks. He
knows her well, knows her funny ways,
her little lived in world, her way of
seeing things, of saying things, the
words she prefers, leaving out words
not hers, like **** and **** and ****
and **** words he likes to sprout in
anger if banging toe or elbow. Now
she undresses, takes off the clothing
piece by piece, he hums the striptease
tune, but she's not amused, and gives
him her stare. Oh you, he thinks, who
could sink a thousand ships, whose
face could turn the tides of sea, shut
thy cackle, come kiss, remember me.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
I have wondered for so long,
What makes me feel this way,
So traumatised by everything,
And it's like this everyday.
I use to be afraid of my family and friends dieing,
I use to feel sick in the morning,
I use to cry when the sunset,
I thought my dieing day was dawning.
Now all the small things are so big,
I have spazums and muscle tension,
I worry about the one I love and if she stays the one,
I fear in my future life there will be no redemption.
The nausea and diarrhoea still cling on,
I sometimes lose sleep,
My heart pounds and my eyes widen,
I growl and sometime shiver and weep.
I think I found it after all these years,
The experts call it GAD,
Am I right?
Will I ever be free?
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
don't blame me because
the sand in your ******
is irritating you
go take a shower
and while you're at it
shave that pathetic excuse
of *** fluff you call a beard
from your perfect face
and while you're at it
wash away
the verbal diarrhoea
caught in the corner
of perfectly firmed lips
and while you're at it
practice in front of the mirror
saying
*I can only criticise
when I'm more perfect
than you*
then come back to me
apologise
and say something new
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
never quiet the proper arrangement,
watching a cat miscarry his strengths of
perfect balance on a fence
deciding to structure his escapism further
from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau,
and i know this is not a crowd pleaser,
no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile,
but as amusements go:
choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply
exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them
mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass
and have fed you.
so unless you think it’s cheap to state
that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski...
you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism
parabola there’s no going back... you can have
irritable bowel syndrome in the morning...
diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle
and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear
into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick
for the calmed metabolism...
i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums...
but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians...
same **** different cover story all over again...
and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat:
metabolism & alcoholism;
and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy...
like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank...
heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics,
that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote):
never come between a drinker and a newspaper
or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I rest in self-misery, as the pride of a mirror - to only see
It as I alone, suffering through these trials. My successes are
Mere private congratulations; pats on the back, aspirations relying
On the weight of the estimation theory. As are my days: random
Components, wholly in the degree of alteration
Days alternate between good or bad; often the latter- a newer
Taste of bitterness, to an unreasonable resentment; a sad struggle
Against the _Diarrhoea of Complaints_- for yes indeed, life can be
So full of **** and almost in that same mirror, you sadly see
The very crap you’re forced to be seated in,- __daily__
As a man is the master in his own fantasies; to have dreams
In which they live as gods- their truths all taking a deformed shape
The shape of life being abstract; as what hurt you today, becomes
The foundation to build tomorrow’s strength. So don’t give into
What pain rests on your plate- feeding into its lies; as where there is
One’s fate, lies the fuel of faith. So ask yourself; where on that tank’s
Needle, does your faith tend to want to sit on
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 2:08 PM UTC
There once did live an unfortunate soul
who from childhood had been diagnosed
with a very rare unknown medical condition
that also defined its own awkward position.
And as it went, it just didn’t know when to stop
until one day it received an unexpected notice
informing it that its time now was almost up
just moments before its heart bled into a cup.
Then instead of normal blood there was seen
that which looked like the colour of diarrhoea
and the stench resembled that of its breath
last exhaled from its gaping mouth at death.
______________________________
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:59 PM UTC
taking a selfie with a mirror...
that's what they didn't expect
when pouting their lips,
that Narcissus would go among them,
wielding a mirror like a sword...
and that by doing so...
he would turn all those looking
at themselves, a fable akin to Medusa -
hence the the crows played golf,
taking aim when Zeppelin dropping
a diarrhoea **** into mouths agape.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:52 PM UTC
When, like cancer, people fear war and death
as a rat fears a cat;
when people detest war and death
like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell
which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia;
when a bright city crowded like a river full to the brim
gets vacant all on a sudden just after seeing a gun-
what can the city be named then?
Avoiding war is the nature of the Queen of Sheba
because a woman means getting boiled like an egg
lying under the aggressive virility of a man
surrendering completely to his lust;
and a man is always like the King Solomon,
at whose beckoning with finger the Queen of Sheba
along with her state gets belonged to him.
But what a city is it, where the disgraced men
hearing the name of war enter the latrines running fast
like the patients of diarrhoea?
What an ill-fated country is it, where men and women
calumniate the war in their sky-rending chorus?
In ancient days women chose only knights and warriors
as their bridegrooms; and for their beloved heroes,
they made ready their shields and swords
so that they could leap into the fathomless beauty of war
if the battle-drum was heard beating.
When they returned to their homes, their wives welcomed them laying their hearts and tears of eyes under their feet.
If they got martyred, the wives felt proud of losing their husbands, as the full Moon feels proud of sacrificing
her light for the earth.
When a woman gets inclined only to her body,
when no noble thought can enter her brain
except the thought of her ****** only then
she clasps her bed-mate like pincers
listening to the sweet slogan of a procession.
But tell me, o *** men, which cancer makes men
such boneless like earth-worms?
Being affected by which tuberculosis, men start shouting heart and soul like ***** saying 'Save!Save!’
listening to the maddening war-song in the air and the sky?
When people detest war and death like a dead rotten rat that spreads intolerable bad smell which way a mad dog detests water for its hydrophobia, that habitation then
can be called a country of worthless people
where the sun should not rise ever,
it should not rain
and crops should not grow in the fields.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC