I don’t mind people farting, but I’m sitting here like a terrorist. By which I mean that I’m sitting with my t-shirt covering my face and can scarcely be identified. This is not good. I want one day without someone farting. Yeah, you read this right, I’m writing a musing about farting.
Fart fart,
you think you’re smart,
But really
I want a horse and cart,
To take
You away and quell the smell,
One more
Fart and that’ll be my death knell!
So yeah, there’s a poem about farting. A poem within a musing. Let’s try for a story within a musing, too! No, I’ve done that, no sense doing it again.
My laptop is burning my lap. What in blazes is the point of a laptop you can’t put on your lap without your lap being in blazes?
My lap, my lap,
Is all afire!
God-damned laptop,
Calm your fire!
I’m on a roll with those crappy poems! Did you know... I’ll share something with you, do you wanna know? I have no credibility! Seriously, my stories aren’t credible. You know why? Because life is actually stranger than fiction. They had to take elements of CSI out because some of it was just too bizarre to believe, and that was based on real life murders.
Murder, a foul thing,
The girl he stabbed,
Had a wristful of bling.
He stabbed and stabbed,
That woman he kebabed
And ran away.
He was found,
And the officers did pound,
Cheers of happiness did resound.
The man is dead and so’s the girl,
She was stabbed, he given a pill,
Doesn’t that just make you chill?
It makes me chill. I mean, a dude killing someone just for their jewellery? Horrible. It happens a lot, though.
Now happy things, which are alluding me. I bought myself some vodka. Yeah, that’s happy. Time for Lady Vodka (Poem 8, or 9 of many, I dunno how many I’ve written so far):
Vodka, My Lady,
You smell so strong,
Yet taste so mild,
There’s a hint of peppery spice,
Ooh, that’s nice,
You’re French and ladylike,
I think I like,
No, I know I like!
More of the Lady?
Yes please!
Imbibe away, Lady,
You big tease!
Admittedly, that isn’t my best composition, but I don’t have her to hand (I’m writing and too lazy to get up off my arse and get me a glass).
I’m gonna end this now, see ya!
Kittylove
Andrew =^.^=
Fart fart,
you think you’re smart,
But really
I want a horse and cart,
To take
You away and quell the smell,
One more
Fart and that’ll be my death knell!
So yeah, there’s a poem about farting. A poem within a musing. Let’s try for a story within a musing, too! No, I’ve done that, no sense doing it again.
My laptop is burning my lap. What in blazes is the point of a laptop you can’t put on your lap without your lap being in blazes?
My lap, my lap,
Is all afire!
God-damned laptop,
Calm your fire!
I’m on a roll with those crappy poems! Did you know... I’ll share something with you, do you wanna know? I have no credibility! Seriously, my stories aren’t credible. You know why? Because life is actually stranger than fiction. They had to take elements of CSI out because some of it was just too bizarre to believe, and that was based on real life murders.
Murder, a foul thing,
The girl he stabbed,
Had a wristful of bling.
He stabbed and stabbed,
That woman he kebabed
And ran away.
He was found,
And the officers did pound,
Cheers of happiness did resound.
The man is dead and so’s the girl,
She was stabbed, he given a pill,
Doesn’t that just make you chill?
It makes me chill. I mean, a dude killing someone just for their jewellery? Horrible. It happens a lot, though.
Now happy things, which are alluding me. I bought myself some vodka. Yeah, that’s happy. Time for Lady Vodka (Poem 8, or 9 of many, I dunno how many I’ve written so far):
Vodka, My Lady,
You smell so strong,
Yet taste so mild,
There’s a hint of peppery spice,
Ooh, that’s nice,
You’re French and ladylike,
I think I like,
No, I know I like!
More of the Lady?
Yes please!
Imbibe away, Lady,
You big tease!
Admittedly, that isn’t my best composition, but I don’t have her to hand (I’m writing and too lazy to get up off my arse and get me a glass).
I’m gonna end this now, see ya!
Kittylove
Andrew =^.^=
