Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Baby Bird Bleeth
Oh, young busty,
Baby Bird Bleeth,
So new to the ways,
of the Long Island Iced Tea.
With hint of red silk bra,
you say ‘Challo,’
to my little friend.
Knoweth not,
the lurking scrote ‘bag,
that surges behind thee.
For with his glazed expression,
that screams morphine drip,
He massacres our souls.
Run away,
Baby Bird Bleeth,
before those meat hooks
‘bag headlock your soft,
silky hair.
And you find the “Woo!,”
rising,
from back of your throat,
As your hand twitches,
into a sideways peace sign.
For you will be too far gone,
Little Baby Bird Bleeth,
to find your way back home,
to the nest.
