a fucking poem

this fucking man had a fucking fetish

saying ‘fuck’ made his underwear wet-ish

you see, he loved to use the fucking ‘f’ word

he dropped it easy like a hot fucking turd

he first said ‘fuck’ when he opened his eyes

aye when he saw a fresh fucking sunrise

he loved his cup of Earl-fucking-Grey tea

why, even the Earl wasn’t as fucking cool as he

he loved a fucking long warm shower

and how it made his wee-wee fucking tower

he loved his fucking eggs, toast and ham

but could never digest a fucking traffic jam

he said ‘fuck’ when he didn’t give a fuck

and ‘fuck fuck’ when he wanted good luck

he once said ‘fucking cool’ to an old priest

who told him he’d just turned fucking atheist

and he never found it the least fucking odd

when he said ‘fucking cool’ to another who found God

his heart never bled; it fucking broke

he never wanted ciggies; he wanted a fucking smoke

he never had sex; he made fucking love

he never questioned; he asked, ‘fucking how?’

well, the fucking man was anything but a fucking fool

he never dropped fucks just to look fucking cool

and he never dropped fucks because he was cheap

in fact, he offered them because he was fucking deep

he knew fucks were soul-glue; they made emotions stick

‘fuck’ gave words feelings; made them fucking epic.

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google)

abracadabra

he was a wizard the books wrote about

a conjuror on whose word, wars were fought

for with the wicked waddle of a frivolous finger

he could get faint perfume to forever linger

aye he could make ruins resplendent again

and rid the shattered and stricken of their pain

aye with a casual incantation he could get

a ghastly greedy Shylock to shrug off a debt

and with just a sorcerer’s stern sizzling stare

he could goad bald heads into sprouting hair

he needed no conman’s cryptic crystal ball

to make midgets see themselves as vainly tall

aye, he could make gooey pimples disappear

from both a pretty face and an ugly rear

and with a single swish of satiny cloth

he could turn an eagle into a harmless moth

he could put an omlette back into its egg

and get a centipede to dance on one leg

aye, he could turn a rank idiot into a sage

and scribe out a man’s destiny on a page

why, with even a half-uttered half-meant spell

he could shift protesting gods from heaven to hell

but the greatest trick the necromancer ever played

was on a lass who was both smitten and swayed

for the maverick magus had a magical hard on

she touched it lightly – and poof, it was gone.

ram cobain

(Pic courtesy Google)

the yum scrotum

the man broke his testicle and ate

an omelette that tasted gooey great

but woe that he had to step out and beg

as he next felt like having a fried egg

but luckily his despair into delight grew

when he saw he didn’t have one ball but two.

ram cobain

selling out is crap

there are no courses on being an arse

none on earth, and aye none on mars

and so this must be a serious self-study

without nary needing a ballsy bum buddy

try alone to find your second rectum

befriend it, make it your bestest chum

never sell out, gladly be a piece of poop

who craps integrity forever on loop

and through all the spewing of shit

you’ll find eureka; scream “this is it!”

“this is why I was the best of sperm

the squiggliest of all squiggly worms

this is my one true triumphant goal

this fetid flowering of my heroic hole!”

and while life might insist that you lump

stay focused on your dastardly dump

and while the world may not understand

we know that with a bidet spray in hand

we may not always part seas like Moses

or that life may not always smell of roses

but honour and joy can be found through turd

by the big breath hold of our constipated word.

ram cobain