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; I’m sure he’s 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 he’s still telling His joke, so I ask why He’s so unhappy, to which he replies... But I don’t care anymore, cause He took too damn long, and from Under my seat, I pull out the Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m 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 I’ve 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 Pop’s black-framed glasses And know he’s laughing too.
UNDERGROUND
Under water grottos, caverns Filled with apes That eat figs. Stepping on the figs That the apes Eat, they crunch. The apes howl, bare Their fangs, dance, Tumble in the Rushing water, Musty, wet pelts Glistening in the blue.
I searched for it- hope I didn’t miss it. I’m not good with HTML so sorry for formatting.
That’s his “poetry?”
(Seriously, what do these tell us about him, other than he wrote the same bland and meaningless crap that we all wrote in our younger days?)
In fact, IMHO, Barack Hussein Obama is the apex of the hate-America, domestic enemy in this country. His election as president would be the greatest coup any enemy has ever scored against this country and could easily lead to the worst, horrific disaster in our nation's history.
my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Need to find a pic for this caption!
A Freudian bonanza.
“CARTER II” — no doubt about it.
I might actually feel some sympathy for the guy if this gets aired. I suck at writing poetry, too, and would do no better. Leave this one alone, stick to substantive issues.
Damn! I bet there’s more bad poetry in the world then petroleum.
And, yes, I'm saying it is a knock-off (and a godawful one).
Dark and lonely on a summer’s night.
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Watchdog barking. Do he bite?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
Slip in his window. Break his neck.
Then his house I start to wreck.
Got no reason. What the heck?
Kill my landlord. Kill my landlord.
C-I-L-L my land lord!
“My jihad, my campign
Won’t be over
‘Til this Republic is slain
We will march to sharia law
Until patriots die or are driven insane”
Don’t grant this Trojan Horse ejntry to the presidency..
Good Lord, now we will have to listen MSM twits gush about his poetry.
OBAMA'S SPEACH I speak as I sink errrr ahhh errr this speech doth stink where was I, uhmmmmm I'm really not that dumb the teleprompter quit and I'm stuck with my wit so bear with me here don't look at my ear (this speech is pure hell come same me Michelle!!!
Not a pretty visual image.
His “Inner Vogon” is quite evident in this output.
"You want some poems, I got some f'ing poems..."
Two conclusions...
That said, Obama poetry has just surpassed the Vogons as the third worst in the Universe.