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Three Poems

[1]246 words

Pulp Fiction

“I’m glad it’s going slowly”
—Uma Thurman

Weinstein, limp as a mullet,
gets the smoke house oven.
“You don’t deserve a bullet”
says the starlet, lovin’

kisses on his shmok
forgotten as each scene
she’d kneel and never talk.
Life is a movie screen

with roles now slightly changed.
The commissar’s become
a holocausted Jew,

his shiksa, blonde, deranged,
once docile, meek and dumb—
an anti-Semitic shrew.

28 November 2017


Jean-Claude Juncker cannot sleep:
donuffins are enslaved in Sirte.*
And yet it doesn’t faze this creep
when Europe’s fair are raped and hurt.

Jean-Claude Juncker, little man,
his body like a rotting pear,
gets his freak on when he can,
his anus eager for each tear.

*Sirte: a city in Libya

30 November 2017

Grab ‘Em By The Pussy

The lovers follow love
as the hawk does the dove.
Always the hunt is on
at dusk, at night or dawn.
More lust than love it is,
ignoble hers and his.

God aches inside our balls,
says “do it,” hence catcalls,
hence each ugly creep,
the tell-tale whores who weep,
(eager for payback
for time spent in the sack).

Good ol’ boy Roy Moore,
God-loving to the core,
Polanski, Weinstein (Kikes)
had their likes and dislikes,
and Lauer and Al Franken,
all of whom got a spankin’.

Sad is our mortal plight,
sad, too, each parasite,
sad the cuck and fag,
sad the bitch who must nag,
sad our lives, cruel, unjust,
full of hate and lust.

15 December 2017