Posted on 05/02/2012 10:05:45 AM PDT by Bigtigermike
Stay classy, Barry!
http://fellowshipofminds.wordpress.com/2012/05/01/does-this-obama-poem-sound-man-boy-gay-to-you/
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/us/politics/18poems.html?_r=1
********
Is there a picture of Obama's past girlfriend on the internet? Thanks.
Based off of multiple fantasies. This limp-wristed dooshbag, 0bama, has never had a girlfriend. Just a moosefriend.
That would explain why not one woman has come forward to claim her 15 minutes of fame as the "former gf of the first black POTUS."
Like his wife.
“My composite girlfriend is Giada De Laurentiis and Selma Hayek.”
My composite girlfriend is BELLYGIRL!
Thanks for the ping. Great thread.
“Everything about socialism is sham and affectation.” - 23.11 Ch23 Evil; Economic Harmonies; Frederic Bastiat 1801-1850
Composite Marxist/Sociailist/Totalitarian
FUBO
Made up memories are so difficult to recall in exact detail.
There, fixed it...
Good one, Pappy. Somewhere Bill Ayers and an old flame of his - are laughing....
... but mainly because they're boyfriends.
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken In, sprinkled with ashes Pop switches channels, takes another Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks What to do with me, a green young man Who fails to consider the Flim and flam of the world, since Things have been easy for me; I stare hard at his face, a stare That deflects off his brow; Im sure hes unaware of his Dark, watery eyes, that Glance in different directions, And his slow, unwelcome twitches, Fail to pass. I listen, nod, Listen, open, till I cling to his pale, Beige T-shirt, yelling, Yelling in his ears, that hang With heavy lobes, but hes still telling His joke, so I ask why Hes so unhappy, to which he replies... But I dont care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror Ive been saving; Im laughing, Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face To mine, as he grows small, A spot in my brain, something That may be squeezed out, like a Watermelon seed between Two fingers. Pop takes another shot, neat, Points out the same amber Stain on his shorts that Ive got on mine, and Makes me smell his smell, coming From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem He wrote before his mother died, Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shrink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; cause I see my face, framed within Pops black-framed glasses And know hes laughing too.
I hear ya!
Yep.
The lies, inside the lies, inside the lies .... all manipulated, ‘revised’ and whitewashed by a shamefully compromised and less than believable MSM will assure that America is never going to know exactly who or what he actually is.
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