Waking up is the worst decision you
make when you spend a day in hell.
Choices seeming wise soon turn stupid
when wrong after wrong pile on like
never-ending pounds of fresh sh*t.
Liar you may call me if you’ve never
met me but I advise you to believe the
obvious truth that this is the worst end
you could have on a peaceful sun’s day.
Best intentions and past assistance mean
nothing to those who witness
false first impressions without intent.
Assumptions they’ll make are the fault
of their own and nothing on you.
Just smile and forget their small-town
minds and remember that somewhere,
sometime, the day of tomorrow will arrive.
Look at these eggs as they stick to the pan,
four yolks beaten to death as no one can.
A teaspoon of milk and and a glob of butter
taken from the strongest cow’s utter
couldn’t make these weak whites shudder.
My whisk can’t fix this breakfast bisque,
and I dare not take no other risk.
My cooking stinks me thinks is clear,
the damage is done, and quite severe.
Millions dead from the taste of salmonella,
and no one thought to add the nutella!
What more can be said Mr. Televangelist?
This chicken was a fascist!
The grandness of relentless self deprecation
relieves oneself from the duty of high expectation.
Belief in no outcome but faith in the hidden
confidence held in private allows hatred ridden.
None but those who understand the philosophy
will ever realize the reasons for such theology.
All love and life’s devotion to sips of an empty potion
drunk from the lips of those devoid of emotion,
or so it would seem to be such a great illusion
when revealed is the nature of life’s conclusion.
A joke it is to fear the faulty death so near,
behold the afterlife and all it’s splendid cheer.
Start your engines for the morning rush,
through the rain and snow and driven slush.
No given quarter or order to madness’ border.
One wrong turn turns life much shorter.
A calm head you must keep and seek
along the least troubled path to bleak.
So it is so the bleak future of the road
where few recover what they’re owed.
But great is the fate of he who’ll wait,
one thing to remember, don’t be late.
Furball fatass waddling through the house
like a four legged punching bag filled with
steel packing peanuts and a dead mouse.
“Meow” and “moo” mean more than a miracle
for the feline who speaks farmhouse lingo.
If you think that I’m joking or sound satirical
just see for yourself when I call ole Bingo.
Do me a favor and try not to pet him,
his teeth sink deep and they may kill you.
I kid of course, the bastard can’t even swim.
But he rows like a champ in the family canoe.
So be kind and ignore the obvious flaws,
for Bingo knows not where to find his paws.