"peta" poems
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
**** the Religious Right
**** Those That Condemn Others*
**** The Republicans
**** The Democrats
**** The Government Having Too Much Say In Our Lives*
**** Paying Taxes
**** The Gas Company
**** The Water Company
**** The Electric Company
**** Cars
**** Car Payments
**** Being Late On Payments
**** Bills All Together
**** Not Getting Benefits For Being Early On Payments
**** My Need To Capitalize Every Word
**** PETA
**** People That Mistreat Animals
**** Vegetarians
**** Carnivores
**** Omnivores, What You Can't Choose A Side?!?!?
**** Going To College Just To Work At McDonalds
**** White Collar Getting Paid More Than Blue Collar
**** Having A Collar
**** The People That Reproduce Too **** Much
**** Those That Think There's No Future In Children
**** Commercialism*
**** Never Running Out Of Things To ****
**** People That Say They Have No Friends But They're Always Too Busy To Do Anything Cuz They're Already Hanging Out With Someone Else
**** Anyone Who Likes This Poem
**** Anyone Who Doesn’t Like This Poem
**** 6,000 Channels On TV And Nothing Is Ever On
**** The Summer Sun
**** Global Warming*
**** Flat Pop
**** Hot Coffee That Gets Cold
**** Pets Dying
**** Death
**** Wasting Life*
**** People That Talk To Much
**** People That Cuss
**** People That Have A Problem With Cussing
**** Fox News
**** Anyone That Lives Their Life Strictly By A Book (especially you Harold And The Purple Crayon people out there)
**** Laugh Tracks Telling Me When To Laugh
**** Everything That You Stand For
**** Everything That You Are
**** Everything That You're Not
**** Finishing This Poem, I'm Gonna Go Eat
**** Anything That I Forgot To **** In This POEM
Jun 11, 2011
Jun 11, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC
I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks
I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me
Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper
Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.
I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or arse-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.
© M.L.Emmett
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
a rodent's demise
didn't see him 'till the end
only his droppings
nasty little black feces
hiding out in my office
the glue traps were set
and baited with green pellets
a matter of time
a nocturnal S.O.B.
no one heard his night time screams
I have no regrets
and PETA would not be proud
but it's not my fault
oh the germs...the germs, germs, germs
just can't deal with mouse ****
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 11:55 AM UTC
You are not the ocean because I do not know that well,
you are not a meadow nor a stroll around the park.
None of these things mean much to me, although
they're beautiful in and of themselves.
You are the scent of incense that used to attack my nose,
eventually I craved it, now the smoke in my room grows.
You are laying on my back in the middle of the road
a kickball flying over me, no worries in the world.
You are a caterpillar making it's way across the street,
climbing onto my open palm so that we may personally meet.
Suction cup feet, pipe in it's mouth a formal way of greeting me.
You tickle my taste buds like peta chips,
you're like sleeping through Christmas morning
(something I could never miss
on purpose,
but if I'm tired enough, I might accidentally oversleep.)
You are grass with ants on each blade
but I lay in you anyway
roll around
breathe
it in
laugh, think,
when did this begin?
When I stopped appreciating little things.
The freezing water of a pool in the shade,
baked beans and a fire place.
New York City vendors
selling handicrafts.
My town written down
tucked away with other maps.
You are
an apple all sliced up without the skin,
you are the worm inside it, too.
Where did this begin?
You are a tree,
now trace my roots,
later trace my skin.
But only when I've figured out
what's missing from within.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
I'm raw my flow consumes dextrose
Tell peta I do the most
Loud sounds I'm out in the public
Friends with Lions we close like cousins
I'm cooking ..in a gourmet kitchen
Chicken is my opposition
Sweet and sour
Predator I'm not a scavenger no coward
Blood falls I need a shower
Drip drop dew mornings
Don't sleep on me like comas
Consuming beats down to the bone
I sip the marrow for a bonus
I am clean like an infants first wash no rap sheet
Walking thru the market
Like shouldn't food be free
Didn't God give us the same control he gave Adam and eve
I am sorry my mind at times goes on a spree
A spree of thoughts
My brain is heavy plus it kicks bass drum
My thoughts run miles
I need pennies for my thoughts
Must be properly endowed
Watch what you eat fool check your food
Fool check your spoon
Food poison
Nasty now you vomiting fluids flowing a fountain
To that server you should have watched how you spoke
Face timing yourself
Seeing your mouth move
Saliva crashing into the coast of your tooth
Yuck images social products
Dislike that dislike you
Keep it true
Tom sawyer and Huck
Instafriends
On instagram
Madoff money instascam
The Poets Lounge go to www.youhavetolisten.com
Every Tuesday 6pm-8pm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
A well cured woman with
tied back hair and
a Mac for fashion,
with also a mac for all weather action,
sat across from me on the train.
Probably sexually active and
without a doubt physically attractive,
she wore morals not money.
PETA badges peppered her lapel,
as she toyed with the check-in details
for the Four Seasons Hotel.
Never will I forget her scent;
high class, high art, high culture,
all distilled within a single
sculpture of smell.
My word, how she spoke so softly,
on the phone or too herself,
even when she asked me for help.
Definitions aren't embodied
in a person that often.
Maybe ex-girlfriends define hell,
but sitting-on-a-train-Mac-user
personified beauty, love,
and the everlasting man seducer.
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 7:44 AM UTC
so i blew up my air conditioner
and my mom wants to **** me
obviously not on purpose
well the blowing up part
my mom definitely wants to **** me
on purpose
like i wanted to **** the frog
when i shot my gun
that accidentally missed
by about four yards
and shot my air conditioner
yes, call PETA
I have an animal abuse case to report
the perk was the frog
victim: my dog
who was poisoned
attempted ******
by the frog
who i tried to ****
on purpose
as self defense
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
I just received a letter of warning
From the people of PETA no doubt
Informing me they've seen my new picture
I think the chicken must have ratted me out
Well you can rest cause I can assure you
In the picture no poultry was harmed
And the chicken also was taken
From a free range organic natural farm
The letter held all the usual jargon
About lawyers and lawsuits and such
It's not like the chicken was wasted
After filming I had her over for lunch
So let me tell all you people at PETA
Don't get your ******* all up in a ***
Right after my head she laid, I supplied the Preparation H
Then carried her gently to the chopping block
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
When I say,
Eeny, Meanie, Miney, Moe,
You know what follows,
Today's children don't know.
Should we be shamed,
Though blameless,
Called racist and supremacist.
I learned those words long after the rhyme,
Losing innocence with time.
Can I still call you Whitey
If my skin is...
Well, different from Whitey's.
I'd be stupid
To catch a tiger
By the toe;
PETA would skin me.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio. Non me peta mormurio
ninguno a la mi vera. Si la voz soterraña
de la canción adviene, que advenga con sordina:
si es la canción ruidosa, con mi mudez la injurio;
si trae mucha música, que en el Hades se taña
o en cualquiera región al ***** Hades vecina...
Ruido: ¡Callad! Pregón de aciago augurio!
Yo deseo estar solo. Non curo de compaña.
Quiero catar silencio, mi sóla golosina.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
dejadme solo.
Como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Mi sandalia (o mi abarca o mi coturno)
no los piséis, tumulto tumultuario,
dejadme solo.
Judeo, quechua, orangutánida, ario,
-como soy de la estirpe de Saturno-
dejadme solo.
Decanto en mi rincón mínimo canto,
silencioso; alquimista soy señero,
juglar oculto, absconto fabulante.
Dejadme solo.
Buen catador (soto mísero manto)
Buen tañedor (sin Amati o Guarniero)
Alto cantor (aunque bajo cantante)
Dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad: non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
Dejadme solo soplando mi caña
silvestre. Non pétame pueril ronroneo.
Non son adamado. Non son sigisbeo.
Son áspero, másculo. Son rudo, sin plaña.
Sin queja. Más mudo que Beethoven sordo.
Sin laude. Más zurdo que Cervantes manco.
Sin pathos. Más seco que no Falstaff gordo.
Solitario. Adusto. Voy único a bordo.
Espíritu en ***** Corazón en blanco.
Y esquivo dejadme. Soy notas-arranco
de mi clavecino. Soy fábulas-bordo
sobre el cañamazo de mi pentacordo.
Soy facecias-urdo. Por dentro me estanco.
Dejadme señero: jamás me desbordo.
Como yo soy el Solitario,
como yo soy el Taciturno,
como yo soy el Hosco, el Arbitrario,
como soy el Lucífugo, el Nocturno,
dejadme solo.
Como soy Leo Atrabiliario,
como soy Sergio el Estepario,
como soy Proclo Extravagario,
como ya tengo el Cuervo y el Vulturno
de los acerbos choznos de Saturno,
dejadme solo.
Dejadme solo. Non quiero compaña.
Dejadme esquivo. Non gusto coreo.
Non paventad. Non presumo de Orfeo
desasnador de cerril alimaña.
No viene a mí, ni voy a la montaña.
Ni vasallo ni César, Juez ni Reo:
Sergio Estepario, Estrafalario Leo.
Con mi tonel. De mi cruz cirineo.
Rey de Burlas, soberbio: cetro o caña
pares le son a mi elación huraña.
Dejadme solo.
1k
Pelita dalam kegelapan
Peta dalam perjalanan
Petunjuk dalam kesesatan
Pedoman dalam kehidupan
Abah,
Engkau segalanya
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC
Venido a menos víking, de poeta
(¡y en el Trópico!) estoy. Cuando cavilo:
¿será mi estilo, (por llamarle estilo)
-de ése mi estilo (estilo a la jineta)
yo mismo en veces (pocas) me horripilo-,
barroco estilo, ni motor de escándalos, 1
por descender (si criollo hasta la zeta)
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos?
De Iberos, (no español de pandereta),
de Renanos (si no bajo del tilo
romanticoide y menos soto el filo 2
guadañador: el Führer non me peta),
de Godos (pero zurdo: y nunca enfilo),
de Vándalos (¿por miedo al diablo mándalos
el Vulgo?) vengo (y vándalo un asceta?):
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos.
De inconexo y sin orden, soy veleta.
(Llévame el viento -como brizna- en vilo).
Ácrata soy, de buen humor tranquilo.
Jamás sóbrame duro ni peseta.
La Noche es techo de mi sólo asilo.
Grandes recorta, mínimos agrándalos,
fechos, mi móvil Yo: ¿síntesis? ¿meta?
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos.
De Enano hace Gigante, y -David- reta
verdadero Goliat, que vé pupilo
mi fantasía, y aunque corte un hilo
su mandoble: y sin honda, ardid ni treta...
Y, ante casos minúsculos, vacilo:
(casos que un soplo blándulo desbándalos...)
Tan vario humor, ¿es zumo que secreta
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos?
De loco no aprovecho, y la chaveta
perdí hace siglos, -y, si despabilo, 3
cuerdo ya soy: de la cordura silo!:
más cuerdo que el mejor anacoreta.
¿Cuerdo? ¡Qué vá! Con menos me obnubilo;
a Juicio y a Folía, Humor comándalos:
¿heredé Humor, Esplín -y la Pirueta-,
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos?
De ambas soy cojo, y ando sin muleta.
Sordo, y oigo el silencio. Y en sigilo
-ciego- oteante el ***** mar vigilo
de la cofa. Sin Fe, ni Amor, ni lieta
Bienandanza, Ambición, ni Afán, destilo
miel -si hiérenme- a ejemplo de los sándalos
(y acíbar además...) ¿Suma -incompleta-
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos?
Príncipe: ¿quién mis trucos interpreta?
¿quién cargará con la que en torre apilo
-¿de Babel?- ¿tonterías? ¿Quién no veta
balumba tal -inundación del Nilo?-
Malos caminos, muy más rápidos ándalos:
es decir, rasga ya la Baladeta 4
de Renanos, Iberos, Godos, Vándalos.
743
Lo que sopló el tifón contra la roca,
lo que aventó el simún contra la duna,
lo que el viento esparció por la ensenada,
no penetró en la bicoca.
Ni el odio soterraño. Ni la envidia bajuna,
ni la ambición acezante, de embaïdor atuendo,
ni el logrero además, al sesgo, sinuöso,
penetró en la bicoca.
Ni la saña virulenta (no la iracundia hiendo,
no transito la insidia: vuelo ingrávido);
ni pueril amargura (nútrome de inasibles)
penetró en la bicoca.
Lo que vozna o que grazna, rahez, ávido;
lo que repta, serpea, húmido, yerto;
lo que exhibe su pus o su laceria,
no penetró en la bicoca.
Prometeo y su buitre, ni Jesús en el huerto,
(Job non me peta: ¡oh gafo Jeremías!)
ni la nenia (el dolor me topó estoico)
penetró en la bicoca.
Platino de las noches, similor de los días;
cobre de los crepúsculos; la hecha cuotidiana;
la gris tragedia fonje que desuela o inunda,
no penetró en la bicoca.
Ni, plácido, el frescor lustral de la mañana
al espíritu libre del inútil pequeño
mester, y ni la tarde sin menester minúsculo,
penetró en la bicoca.
Ni la noche del fértil sueño; ni el tras-sueño
-hórrido amanecer para absurdos oficios-
de la aventura lauta sin la próxima angustia,
penetró en la bicoca.
Libertad ni Ocio próvido ni Holganza… (ásperas sicios
sin Moisés aqüifice cuando la roca toca…)
(¿tú quoque jeremítico?) La palinodia imbele
no penetro en la bicoca.
Lo que sopló el tifón contra la roca,
lo que aventó el simún contra la duna,
lo que el viento esparció por la ensenada,
no penetró en la bicoca.
707
This is the story of a tipped tree,
Some fish,
And two men who hit the streets.
They wanted to spread the word
About how to keep pets safe.
To speak up for those who could
Not be heard.
They'd knock on the door,
Say "hi! We're from PETA!
And just like that, they weren't
Invited to say anymore.
This happened again and again and again.
Finally, they agreed "one more. Then that will be the end."
They knocked on the door.
But this time, no one answered.
They knocked again, no answer.
They went to the window
And what did they see?
Baby goldfish in clear ***** of water
Hanging off the tree.
They looked at each other, and both said "we need to act quick."
Luckily, the door was unlocked.
No lock to pick.
Handling them with care,
They got the fish to safety and got
Out of there. But before they left,
They kicked the tree down in anger.
And that's the story of how the tree was knocked over not by a cat,
But a stranger.
Dec 16, 2019
Dec 16, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC
...and then PETA showed up and wanted to know whether there were sufficient air holes for the lamb to breathe and how the separating of the lamb from its mom went and whether or not the box was organic and free of all chemicals known to cause allergic reactions among lambkind.
The prince pulled out his legally concealed pistol and shot the PETA representative.
The ACLU, not arguing with the prince's right to carry the legally concealed weapon, but objecting to his failure to alert the PETA representative before shooting him, offered to take on the case of PETA v Prince for free, as long as PETA would agree not to protest the Jack In The Box deliveries that would be a thrice daily occurrence while the ACLU readied itself for trial.
The prince, misunderstanding ACLU's motivation and fearing the eventual loss of his right to legally concealed weapons, looked a little harder and deeper at the box and, voila, miracle of miracles, began to see apocalyptic scibblings regarding the fast-approaching war of Armageddon and the importance of a "well-armed militia" in the winning of that unavoidable conflict.
Recognizing the chance to shore up the faithful -- and put to shame the rest -- the Christian Coalition adopted the prince's message and gave it more teeth. They stoked the flames of hellfire, added more levels to the depths of hades, and notched up the sufferings to those found guilty by their Lord, the Good Shepherd.
The ACLU responded, adding the Christian Coalition to the complaint.
The battle lines were drawn. The ACLU and PETA stood on one side and the Christian -Coalition and the NRA stood on the other.
People argued and screamed and fought and condemned.
Then, a little boy of five, wiser than his years and saddened by the preemption of his favorite cartoons in favor of live coverage of the proceedings noticed something nobody else had. Neither side any longer had a picture of the lamb. So he drew his own.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Waiting for an audience , practicing every move , critique every nuance , critical eye contact with animal counterparts . Your display of affection is most disheartening , the only reason for you presence ? So politically correct friends can feast their eyes upon a " shelter dog " . A rite of passage like your tie dyed t-shirt , sandals and voter registration ! Claim to be a PETA activist but your only a charade , a most dangerous psychopath walking from cage to cage ! Who stands before me ? You appear delusional as well ! In two days I'll be sentenced to the backyard , shackled to a tree ! Living off of rainwater and sporadic feedings ! Crying for release , tortured with fleas .. I have found the one ! Any guess on how I can tell ? You've the unmistakable look of loneliness coupled with the scent of depression .. An aroma within your gradient most vivid and easily detected ! The same odor within my cage , surrounding this wounded animal ! You and I will remain side by side , play off each others affections , render great joy to one another and form a bond that will last forever !
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
The rats run in, the rats run out
thats just what they do
spreading disease and parasites
eating inside, and out, of you
PETA would have you imagine
that it's just another living thing
oblivious to the death
such creatures always bring
Cockroaches scurry around
rats are their only fear
carrying more viral death
each time, that they, appear
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
Sorry for the delay. I was busy.
I'm still alone. U?
**********************************
zealotry yawping within un
pretentious sporty, quirky,
oddly, manly, kooky, impisly, gummy,
edgy, dorky, cocky, belly airs
to disseminate, a quick
literary flourishing brushstroke
no on nest to dog lie 'n, tie gears
(tigers) boot this chap bears,
who copped, dropped,
plopped out of college devoid of any careers,
and wandered the globe after
searching classifieds for reign leaderless deers,
this buck rogers wannabe could be doe ting,
and assist sleigh get off the ground
on account of his Dumbo ears,
despite abomination, hesitation, and trepidation
to push comfort zone and exposure therapy skyward
in order to over nervousness about being in high places
plus countless other fears,
and an extreme intervention measure considered,
would be brain transplanat with that of another,
whose mental cogs and gears
and a canine like audibility acute as a hares
means to sprint at light speed if senses
being caught in the cross hairs of a gun barrel,
whose fate doomed demise almost insnares,
yet PETA type person would loathe any jeers
if any animal alluded to characterized
heading toward harm
and in reality, this heir,
who favors knitwears
with pink frilly (“I HATE BOYS”) *******
would put his measly life on the line,
cuz aye believe every creature own right to live,
whether they dwell in **** trees or underground lairs,
oh..., or kept in stable condition
of ca horse hi mean mares,
a barn strewn with hay during the day
to fend off pitch black ominous sounds
Equus ferus caballus (Hardy
as a mountain Laurel),
but quite susceptible to nightmares
thus some veteranarians strongly suggest
cloth eye elastic lined ocular shades,
but please make sure Mister Ed,
or his ilk doth newt overhears.
------------------------------------
addy ewe - matthew scott harris
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
Not figuratively, but literally. It's called zoo. Inter species
coupling. My wife is a sheep. But let me tell you how it all
began...
When I was ten, I knew I was attracted to animals when I put
lipstick on a pig and we made out behind the barn. Later that
year my uncle started hiding his dog Sadie whenever I came by
because I had to go to the hospital when I put peanut butter on
my ***** and instead of licking it off, Sadie bit it.
Later when I was 12 I couldn't help but admire the hind
quarters of my uncle's donkey. Such a fine *** I mean donkey.
Hee haw.
I still keep in touch with Sadie, if a dog can keep in touch.
Needless to say we don't play fetch the stick, too many bad
memories. You know dog spelled backwards is God? So that
helps justify my love for Sadie.
Any way, when I was 14 I got arrested for fence hopping. That's
when you sneak into someone else's property and f*ck their
animals.
And it was only later when as an adult, I met my wife the sheep,
who is named Angelica, because of her white angel- like wool. I
met her on a animal *** farm up North called "Loving Nature".
It's a ranch where there is a whole sub culture going on. Like a
**** Noah's Ark.
A guy on the internet married us so it's bound to be legal. If she
ever has baby lambs, they will end up with my Irish nose. Just
kidding, ha ha.
So that's how I came to love animals and married my wife
Angelica, the sheep. PETA doesn't understand me but I think the
animals like it. I never heard one say no or stop.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
While I was driving a Monster Truck, I ran over Mister Ed.
I accidentally ran over that talking horse and now he's dead.
Mister Ed said "F*** you" to me with his final breath.
Millions of people are upset because of his death.
That horse let out a smelly **** before he died.
When his owner saw what happened, he cried.
Wilbur Post called Peta and that got me in a lot of trouble.
I was sued and the only lawyer I could afford was Barney Rubble.
I lost the lawsuit because Barney is stupid because he's from the Stone Age.
When I couldn't pay Wilbur ten million bucks, the cops locked me in a cage.
Please listen to my advice or you may go to jail and your spouse will get a divorce.
If you ever drive a Monster Truck, you'd better not run over somebody's talking horse.
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:44 PM UTC
I about have had enough
Of this constant bashing Trump
Daily in the news
There's not a thing the man can do
He could **** out bars of gold
Cure the common cold
Put an end to the world's hunger
Keep the young from growing old
Help Nancy Pelosi cross the street
A Granny that's in need
Have Israel and Palestine
Over for tea which brings world peace
He could become vegetarian
Call Peta amongst his friends
Give Hillary another chance
And let America vote again
To tell you the truth
There's not a thing the man could do
That the left might find that he does right
Or try to misconstrue
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC