Furniture

This morning, as I had my pretentious coffee,

I rifled through a pretentious magazine,

That came with the unpretentious papers.

Saw an advert for a store selling armchairs,

Their tagline was “Inspired by a dream”;

Amused, I wondered what furniture I’d churn,

If it were to be inspired by my latest dream,

A double homicide, a slasher on the lose,

With the knife dripping fresh blood,

Being chased by hungry hungry hippos.

Freud and Neitzsche, can you hear me?

Why do I always have red on my mind?

Yoga and Capoeira, Pilates and Jogging,

In Under Armour and no underpants,

Nothing brings more peace and joy,

Like dreaming of steel knife in windpipes.

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Grown-up

I asked my daughter,

What dya want to be,

When you are a big girl?

Her answer made me

Want to dig my own grave,

On a stolen plot somewhere,

And jump in, without a tank

Of Oxygen or Oxycodone.

What an oxymoron!

I didn’t even want the grave marked,

For she said she wants to be a “socialite”.

Asswipe

“I am God”, said an asswipe.

Blew his horns, sounded from a pipe.

All you bloody did was see a shrink,

Who helped you get outside of hell’s brink.

Like a Jungle-man beating his chest,

You proclaim that you are the best.

You can walk on water,

Do things like in the gutter.

Make wine out of pee-pee,

Glamorous gold shit-shit.

Fucking whores on a schoolnight,

I’mma choke your windpipe.

Don’t mess with me, dickhead,

Might light fire to your fucking bed.

The Lemon-seller

Brazilian blow-out, bitch

45 minutes, to stomp you.

You and your cheap trash.

You got fucked, with your hymen intact.

Haha, so much for your party-planning.

Rained on your parade, did I?

I didn’t mean to, I just did my.

You’re a result of a bus collision,

You should be bludgeoned,

During an intervention.

The devil came to strike a deal,

Saw your soul and said no, thank you.

You ain’t going anywhere, losers,

You won’t even get new dentures.

That one is tapped out, burnt and drunk,

Find yourself a pimp and get on a bunk.

Mediocre pleasuring, that’s your style.

After two shots, you can’t go a mile.

Looked up your symptoms on WebMD,

Looks like you think too much of thee.

You got absolutely nothing on me, bitch!

Except that I am a wizard and you a witch.

If it were 1500s, they’d burn you brown,

You’d look shitty, even with your crown.

Gold-digging bitch, you didn’t dig very far,

Nobody’d give you a dime, even in hoe bazaar.

Slutty smouldering eyes, with lungs to match,

A starving hyena and leech won’t find you a catch.

Dunno where I am going with this, this infernal diss,

When you fuck a lemon-seller, you’d get strabismus.

Warped

Brain noodles,

Polynesian poodles,

Yahoo doodles.

Unibrow model,

Half throttle,

Fizzless bottle.

American Rubel,

Aristocratic strudel,

Lawyer mogul.

Scatting yodel,

Zero subtotal,

Rhyme, McDougal.

Bloody fences,

From your menses,

Diva cup frenzy.

Glitterati, Illuminati,

Take it nonchalantly,

What’s with the shite-shitey?!

Extra shirt buttons,

Who is that glutton?

Got’em by the dozens,

Bitch, pick your cotton.

Bleeding brain noodles,

Writing Warhol doodles,

Mush in your puddle.

Return, hillbilly,

With ass in chilli,

Boo! Scaredya totally.