We love poetry. It’s the art of boiling down your (hopefully) profound thoughts about life in to a few concise couplets. It’s beautiful and takes years of practice to master. We’ve been at it for about 17 minuets. 17 minuets may not be the lifetime that it takes to master the art, but I feel like I pretty much nailed it.
My Love, My Life, Your Retarded Cousin Skippy McGillicutty
Skippy, Oh, Skippy! Please keep away from that outlet!
But I’m not gonna lie: it’d be pretty funny!
I watch you roam the yard so free, watch you beat a nest of bees
I can’t stop laughing!
Skippy, Oh, Skippy! Please come with me to the mall!
The chicks will Aw!
They’ll unhinge their jaw!
And you can wait by the ice cream guy while me and this chick go, uh, talk about things. Here’s ten-bucks, kid. Go ram some ice cream in to your daffy skull.
Beautiful Like A Rose Or Some Shit Like That
Yeah, so, uh, you’re like, beautiful
Or some shit like that
Like a rose, or maybe a really well made taco
I want to punch your memory in to my brain
The way your ex-boyfriend used to punch me
After I banged you
I can’t think too good anymore
But I know I love you
Of this I am sure
That’s why I’m writing you this poem
Let’s go get some beef.
Ain’t this shit supposed to rhyme?
Love. Or whatever.
Man, this shit’s gay.
I’mma pork your holes.
When I look out my window I ponder the mysteries of the existence
I think about space and time,
and why I can’t seem to find my god damn car keys.
I wonder if we are all specks of dust in the grand scheme of things
I wonder if one day all life will cease to be
But then I’m all like, “Seriously, though. Where are my goddamn car keys?!”
I think about the beauty of the human soul
I shed a tear when I think about the vastness of the universe
And then I wonder if my goddamn car keys fell in to some fucking nebula or some shit
When I look at a bird I wonder if he thinks the same things I do
If he ponders the meaning of life like me
And if he knows where my goddamn keys are.
So I ask the bird, “Oh, birdy! Oh, Birdy! Where the fuck are my keys!”
And he looks at me and says “Life is what you make of it, and what you should make is love.
And I reply, with a twinkle in my eye, “Is this some kind of sexual proposition? Whatever. I just want to find my keys, man.”
Long story short, I eventually found my keys.
No thanks to the bird,
Or the universe.
END OF POEM!