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Reece Kaye Poems
Poor Taste Poetry (Not for the easily of...
My wife’s like a house, she’s so fukin’ big With her Bulemia/Alzheimer’s trick. She eats and eats like a fukin’ pig But forgets to be fukin’ sick.
Number ten in the Toadstool charts, cos ...
I’m gonna get my friends to act I’ll do it by my telepathy Ill send them all to Poemhunter And click on my biography
Miss UniqueVerse,2006 (A poetic beauty p...
From a rather hectic night before The judges, a little to wear for worse Sat grudgingly to pontificate On this year’s new Miss UniqueVerse.
Tips For A Woman's Safety And Survival (...
Women, women, women. The enigma of our lives. So much more understandable Before you were our wives.
Cherubic chunks and the cold light of da...
The Angels won’t be here today They’ve been disowned by every nation For contaminating, the mountain streams With the dregs from their colonic irrigation
'Mr Blobby goes to market! By William Wo...
and lo, there by the golden halo purple dapples all around off to town to spend his payload Mr Blobby trod the ground
The tattooed Moon reflecting Neath the shimmering downy veil Soft rhythmic undulations Held in check
How often in the mirror Do we find time to reflect? Though mirrors, metaphorical Show us what, we least expect.
Looking for Hot Stuff baby this evening?
By day he was a plumber, a regular one of the boys, But by night he ran Ladies Parties, selling fantasy sex-toys. And when a plumbing he did go, the ladies liked his tools for sure Which explains all his discount rates, when being paid behind the door.
As the last word formed On the lachrymal page From the hiss of the nib Came the last of her rage
Valentine’s view of a British Soap Opera
Ah love sweet love Make me, not frown And all will be thy pleasure’s fill It’s forward and back, not up and down
Cold blew the wind through the tunnel of love The lovers recoiled and withdrew from the blight Semi-clad frames did climb far above In search of the warmth, but finding just night
Can you tell the boys I won’t be there I won’t be playing Any more
A poultry affair at the fair.
Them farm girls at t’market All laughed at moi hair Thems said it was sad, like a mullet Oi said “It’ll look better,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Poor Taste Poetry (Not for the easily offended)
My wife’s like a house, she’s so fukin’ big
With her Bulemia/Alzheimer’s trick.
She eats and eats like a fukin’ pig
But forgets to be fukin’ sick.
Note: Another Favourite Classic joke put to rhyme.