Free verse № 151793
Fraser Allonby Quidnam Cruris
He's large and round and mentally deficient,
His stained pantaloons are no longer sufficient,
To constrain his bulging, corpulent thighs,
Blossoming daily on a diet of pies.
He swaddles his legs in giant dungarees,
Sadly they will not clear his knees,
I've ne'er seen legs thus wrapped,
Save 'pon the handicapped.
He daily feasts 'pon curried buns,
Delivered to his chambers, despatched in tons,
Pity his clerks, who quake with fear,
When their time comes to wipe his rear.
3 comments
Christ, you'd have wept had you seen her,
All of that weight,
Squeeze into four feet and eight,
She had the combined mass of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Pedaling west, halfway across Virginia
tomorrow I'll crest the Appalachians
just 3500 miles to go
can you imagine the ruts in pavement?
Where's Fraser? Haven't seen him all day.
'Tis the feast of thy curried buns,
Arise, sweet bun, kill the envious prune,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That bun made her fart far more than ye.
Be not her maid, since the prune is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do consume it; cast it off
It is my Bun, O, it is my Bun!
O, that what a bun she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing; what of that?
My blood with buns courses; I will chance it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she wreeks.
Two of the fairest buns in all the heaven.
Looove this...
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