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Ode to a Heinous Biznatch

 

An ode to a heinous biznatch,

Whose name shall stay unsaid.

Whose head’s expanse unmeasured,

Filled with brain? Nay, gas instead.

To words, though spake, with gusto great,

And meaning brimming full,

Her mind replies with giggles nigh…

To cackles from the wolves.

And try she might for eloquence,

‘Tis Logic is her bane.

Discourse with her is idiocy,

And conversation vain.

But…muddled, heinous, nasty one,

For whom the dumbbell tolls,

Take heart: your mind is wond’rous,

‘gainst the head that in it holds.

Of noses, which, by normal lot,

Are odd-shaped sorts of things,

Your twisted, ugly, horrid snout,

Gives your witch-friends self esteem.

And eyes, that often-times do draw,

The men-folk’s hearty praise,

On your sad head, said orbs instead,

Inspire their malaise.

And lips, on woman, rightly placed,

Can set man’s heart a-blazing!

Alas, on you, you piteous beast,

They seem more fit for grazing.

Thus ends my ode to she,

Who with her thoughts still sat alone,

Who reaps in all her countenance,

What her frail mind ere has sewn.

 

 

Shinywalrus

 

 

 





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