Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

there once was a healer named jimboloco,
who healed himself and others times ocho.
when the edict came down,
he recognized that same frown,
war all you want but it ends up in no go.

wood oak lined panels in my brain
with leftover pot molecules to keep me sane
up before thhe crack of dawn
while positive happiness i fawn
with coffee and silliness to sustain

off to th jewel mines i will go
merrilly singing hiho hiho!
i'm still half asleep
the lord my soul did keep
for maddening thoughts about the po veep

there once were some studioeighters
who dined until dawn on tomatoes
oh my what a rush
and why all the fuss
we can be thankful it wasn't poetatoes!

there ws a fighter pilot named McCain
his mommy told him God and Country to be a man,
he bombed some rice paddies
for mommy and daddy
now he's running a war hero's campaign

there was a lady nicknamed mousey
she wrote poems that blushed and got saucy
since then it's been plain she likes to drive us insane
as we weep with exctatic oouchy wowsey

Do the Hendrix!

Drink a toast to young Heath.
Some fine actin' to us he bequeath.
No more worries or reason to fear
for this wrangler, this angler, this angel, this queer.
btw, did you know "vagina" means sheath?


doth a pome perhaps hath bad taste?
and haste makes waste but waste makes paste.
snow flakes
n earth quakes
got tha shakes from too few many wake n bakes.

just who the hell is young Heath?
fine actin to he doth bequeath?
what me worry?
i'm not sorry,
it's just instant karma drivin th wheel

you got th shakes need to get baked
not half-baked
nice an toasted!
is it bad taste cause it's spilled in haste?
still snow flakes
flakey

Page torn from the Ledger.
Better do better when the bets
are laid down by a hedger.
Fledgling foundling foundering
under the fondling
Mail fraud male bonding
saving grace and loan survivors.
Wronger Reagan.
Waving bacon.
Shaving savings.
economic depression...

Rich white woman
versus rich black man
versus rich white man.
American democracy
great diversity.
Corporate prophets.

my cock wakes me stiff in the morning
so i press down against it whilst yawning
then i stroke at my leisure
gives me sensual pleasure
i stop when the thing starts its spawning

she talked sensually from the hips
with a funeral smile on her lips
wrapped in ermine and furs
she stuck her jangling spurs
right into his arse with a rip

from the mouth of a whore

it isn't for love, it's for dough
that i walk the dark streets as a ho'
fucked in all sorts of ways
to any man who will pay
i'm rich but my pussy hangs low

There once was a Submarine chef
Who would stare or else talk you to death--
He'd serve you a meal
And then leave you to feel
That his aura was made up of meth.

This might be sorta off topic, or too self-referential--I made it up years and years ago to describe a co-worker at the Yellow Sub, a restaurant that kept me off the streets during my student years (all eight of them, to be exact).

Not to impugn anybody else's, but e-dog, yours knocked me out, and bennie, your last one esp. cracked me up.