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Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 6:01 pm
by Strangelove
La Cucaracha

He hates the GM, he hates the coach,
Ne’er a prospect beyond reproach.
“Don’t waste cap space!”
“Aim for last place!”
Such a contrary fucking cockroach.


Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 6:35 pm
by Doyle Hargraves
The Eeyore gang is starting to crumble
Just as the Canucks begin to stumble
First the dude , then ok canuck.
They don't seem to give a fuck
Still Tooper and Doc
Riding on Elmers cock
I hope they used some lube
They should smoke a big dube
Try to forget how the team stank
And go join Blob on the tank

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 7:21 pm
by Strangelove
Come now Blobrovsky, everyone agreed the next coupla rebuilding years would be rough. :roll:

But you totally gave up on Builder Benning sooooo prematurely!

How many times have I told you...

The Big Picture

We sprang to our builder’s defense,
How on Earth could they be so dense.
You cannot gauge,
At this early stage,
Try to focus on three years hence.


Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Feb 08, 2016 10:09 pm
by Doyle Hargraves
I have no problem with a rebuild
The prospect cupboards need to be filled
It's the builder that stinks
You guys are acting like dinks
Telling me the wart is a stud
When he plays like a dud
It makes me unhappy
Stop acting like a hurt puppy [mode edit]

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Tue Feb 09, 2016 10:05 pm
by Strangelove
You Suck You Schmuck!

You suck,
You schmuck.


Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon May 08, 2017 7:48 pm
by Strangelove
The Cremation of Sam McGee


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Fri May 12, 2017 10:32 am
by damonberryman
Once out of Nature
I shall never take my form from bodily things
but such things as Grecian goldsmiths make

Yeats expresses how I will feel if i lay on my deathbed without one fucking cup to celebrate

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Fri May 12, 2017 11:49 am
Skyo right on queue, so bruh I never knew, that we had a thousand poets crew.

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Sat Sep 09, 2017 4:36 pm
by Strangelove
I've been waxing rather poetic on the main board of late.

But as those lazy hazy crazy days of summer draw to an end, time to put things in their proper place!

("things" being Blob and Reefer) :mrgreen:

Hollow Blob on Brad Treliving

Where Bradley goes, Blob doth follow.
What Bradley spews, Blob doth swallow.
But in this coup, Brad won’t wallow.
This win, like Blob, rings awful hollow!

Somewhere over the Rainbow

This story is one of sadness,
This guy is from Oz, not Kansas.
His brains are moosh,
He only hears whoosh,
It sucks to have Reefer madness!

Reefer2 wrote:Do you and RD ever give it a rest?
Get off My Lawn! (or Early Onset Joo Joo Eyeball)

They’re axing his posts and speaking Chinese!
(things that aren’t there... are things that he sees!)
He got feet... down,
To... the ground,
Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease!

Thanks for the inspiration fellas…

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Fri Sep 15, 2017 9:31 pm
by Strangelove

With sadness and much contrition,
She travels the road to perdition.
Clutching her willy,
Like her idol Hilly,
She's halfway through the transition!

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Nov 18, 2019 7:14 pm
by Strangelove
Reef On It

There once was a man from Kyoto
Who coated his clone in cocoa.
“That cake has upside,
There’s pudding inside!”
He said after dining… solo?

Reefer2 wrote:
Sun May 07, 2017 9:11 am
I am a pretty boy so don't want to end up someone's "best friend" so want a safe place.

Pretty Boy Reefer

There once was a man from Fukuoka
Who craved himself more than coca.
His “best friend” was his clone,
Who inserted his bone,
And said “This is more fun than the polka!”

The Jerk Store

Twas said ole Reef did not tarry
O’er the chance to bang his clone faery.
Faced with this report
His only retort
Was “Oh yeah, well you’re rather Harry!”

Re: Poetry Corner

Posted: Mon Nov 18, 2019 7:15 pm
by Strangelove
There once was a poacher named Lever
Who hunted the prized Asian Beaver.
Twas ‘round Keefer and Gore,
According to lore,
That he first contracted Yellow Fever.