Friday, October 6, 2006
Rhyme of the Ancient Marinated Douche
Yea, ‘cross yonder bar,
There lies a mystic scrotum,
Powers of douche, strong.
Perhaps my dark thoughts,
are tempered by raven hair.
Not enough, I rage.
Set face on fire, lo!
Behold pink shirt, oiled grease.
Save the minx, I must.
Tribe tatted greaseball,
Embers of discontent stoked.
I’d lick her kneecaps.
Unholy union,
Ripped shirt tragedy, karmic loss.
My soul dies many deaths.
