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ConnectHook Sep 2015
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A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance – yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth –
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy – but docile.
What's wrong? Too hard to LIKE me ?
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  

         †           †           †
Paul Hansford May 2016
... and this one isn't.

They were going to start a new life,
childhood sweethearts become man and wife.
But a drunken stag-night
ended up in a fight,
and someone had taken a knife.
Knit Personality Jul 2018
There once was a player named Morgan
Who played all day long with his *****:
     He played with it majorly,
     Sadistically, and ragerly,
That claw-handed, hairy-palmed Morgan.  

There once was a confident nudist,
The rudest of nudists, and lewdest,
     Who'd offer a toot
     On his flesh-and-bone flute,
Declaring he'd make you a flutist.

There once was a wandering hobo
Who wandered from NoBo to SoBo
     Whilst whistling merrily,
     Gladly, and verily
Mozart's concerto for oboe.

Steve Apr 2016
There once was a poet called Paul
Who couldn't write poetry at all
He wrote from the heart
About a thorny old ****
While she was out having a ball
There once was a girl named sue
She spent her time in the zoo
She got hit on the nose
With the elephant’s hose
And woke up in Tim-Buck-Two  


There once was a girl named Suzie Lamar
She went to a movie that was rated R
When she got caught
Pa gave he a swat
And now she’s living in grandpa’s car
ConnectHook Feb 18
Donald Trump has made many quite fussy;
as he did for one actor, named Jussie.
In the end, the abuse
was revealed as fake noose,
two Nigerians, red hats, and one *****.

It's so rotten, one almost can smell it
and it's painfully shameful to tell it;
but this fellow named Smollett
reached deep in his wallet.
Some bought it, when he tried to sell it.
Just corner Kevin and ask him about it:
ConnectHook Jan 25
Black Israelite haters, excused,
led to schoolboys reviled and accused
of white racism, hate.
The reaction was great--
but the whiteboys were merely amused.

Progressives were driven berserk
by a teenager's innocent smirk.
The old shaman tried shaming:
and drumming and blaming,
but none of those strategies work!

Mr. Phillips, the activist drummer
gave Regressives their Indian Summer--
till a teenager's smirk
drove the demons berserk
and made dumbed-down regressives much dumber.

If a smile is a cultural crime
then the criminals need to do time.
Every whiteboy must go
in this cracka-*** show
and I'm guilty for reason of rhyme.
more on the way...

don't forget to wail and chant when people smile at you!
Pyrrha Feb 12
You aren't just gold and starlight
you are my every word
my dialect, my stanza, my every thought
you leave me tongue tied

You are my entire language,
you make my speech so clumsy
all my words are tripping over themselves
just to please you and only you

You are my linguist dream,
I love to study the poetry in your veins
the sonnets in your eyes,
the limericks in your lips

You are literature incarnate,
and I worship you
ConnectHook Mar 26
Jussie walks ! Money talked—and talked loud
To the Trump-hating race-hustle crowd;
And they break forth in cheers
As star Smollett appears
For their drama-queen makes them so proud.

For a moment Fake News became tense:
Jussie's narrative made little sense.
There were lies told in spades,
But the incident fades;
Now it's on to more current events.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018

She was one cool chick.
Dressed -  très chic.

She curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift.

Her name was Miss Dumpty.

Claimed her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big and
got his.

I remembered the case.

His smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face..legs scrambled at an unnatural angle.

The autopsy pics
made me sick.

Said she had gone to Sam *****
to dig up dirt.

But no dice.
Sam's paid..he's off the case.

She spat the name out
with a thanks-for-nothing look.

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"

"What's in it for me!"
I smirked.

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way.

Turned out it was
Little Boy...would ya believe it...Blue!

Jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness and how he

got recited more often than
Mr. B. Blue.

Nursery Crime is increasing
so they tells me.

Too many modern authors
making ***** parodies..

Or in the *****
Limericks Business.

Scaring the kiddies away.
Putting the frighteners on parents.

Me and Miss Dumpty?

We're going for the big happy
ever after!
I used to say it wasn't you.

Letters and symbols,
Of feelings and sparks.
Voids filled with colour.
Eyes closed in the dark.

Duality was at random,
"You" was just chance.
Only lies and nothings.
Under falsehoods I dance.

I wrote about boys,
Songs about girls,
Tangents of lost love
I wrote up whole worlds.

Limericks of nothing,
Lies that were true.
Dozens of words
Old thoughts that were new.

But now I realize,
I avoided the signs.
You've always been there,
hidden in the lines.
Secret messages? In my poem? It's more likely then you think.
J Jul 2018
A stranger once asked me, "What is your deepest darkest secret?" I laughed at his curiosity, hesitated for a few moments and then gave up.
"I can't think of any at the moment." I replied.
"I'll have to get back to you."
Another lie.  
My deepest darkest secret is the words that spill from the ink of my pen into limericks, narratives and sonnets. It is the raw, most pure form of my fears, hopes and dreams.  
It is poetry.
I was asked this 4 months ago and I still think about it so I decided best to write a poem about my secret of writing. The irony.
Joe Halliday Jan 3
There was once a young girl named Betty
Who watched the boats sail from her jetty
She sometimes got wet
Splashed by a fisherman’s net
That soggy little sailor our Betty
The intrepid explorer known as Betty
Set off in search of the yeti
She looked high and low
With Lucy and Joe
Then showered the beast with confetti
Cooking up a storm with Betty
Her speciality is scrumptious spaghetti
We’ll wolf it all down
She’ll feed half the town
Then wash it down with a Birra Moretti
Have you seen that beauty called Betty?
It was love just as soon as she met me
A head of silk hair
An inquisitive stare
I would eat her if only she’d let me

— The End —