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Unread 01-18-2018, 11:17 AM
John (J.D.) Smith's Avatar
John (J.D.) Smith John (J.D.) Smith is offline
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Join Date: Jan 2006
Location: Washington, DC, United States
Posts: 146
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These are suitable for polite company, I think.

I have a couple of obscene song parodies that won't appear in this forum.

Do Not Throw Bento into That Food Fight

Do not throw bento into that food fight.
No sage would add sashimi to the fray.
Gauge, gauge what kind of viands should take flight.

Though pies men make of cream are hurled in spite,
Because these men have other cravings they
Do not throw bento into that food fight.

Rude men who save, fast only that they might
Let sail sous vide, perchance green crudités
Gauge, gauge what kind of viands should take flight.

Rude men who fought and sang with appetite
And send, in haste, rare morsels on their way
Do not throw bento into that food fight.

Brave men, hot-breathed, who see it as their right
To size both fish and flesh as missiles for their prey
Gauge, gauge what kind of viands should take flight.

And you, my brother, there in your mad plight,
Confess what waste would pierce you with dismay.
Do not throw bento into that food fight.
Gauge, gauge what kind of viands should take flight.

Picking through Trash on a Sunday Evening

Whose goods these are I think I know.
I guess he doesn’t need them though,
Or else he wouldn’t leave them here
To be hauled off by friend or foe.

My wife called: I should get in gear
To come on home and have a beer
And take less than I’d thought to take—
Still worth less than it might appear.

She tells me I should take a break
As if bills did, for goodness’ sake.
Our bank account could make me weep
And we squeak by on what I make.

The goods are likely worn and cheap,
But I have lots to sort and heap.
And piles to stow before I sleep.
And piles to stow before I sleep.


This Too Be Verse

I got out early, like you said,
And murdered my posterity.
Now that I’ve made my barren bed
My heart should flutter light and free.

It aches, instead, with time to brood
On rising seas, on species lost,
On threats of war and how we’re screwed
By greed that doesn’t count its cost.

Pain’s pending claims won’t be denied,
As I imagine you knew, Phil.
With or without kids by your side
Man’s misery can deepen still.

Reader Review

Because I could not stop for Smith,
He kindly stopped for me
To bend my ear and wrack my brain
With his, um, “poetry.”

He slowly droned—I rued the waste
Of nearly half a day
Of labor and of leisure, too,
To hear what he might say.

He passed up any claim to tact
Or taste—he seemed to spit—
He passed up social relevance
And any shred of wit.

Or maybe wit shunned him—
Like dancing or some other skill—
For every line caused me to yawn.
How could he spew such swill?

I turned a final page and felt
My head no longer pound
From all that jocularity—
Best muffled underground.

Since then I’ve been at ease, and yet
I cringe in memory
At how this scribbling horse’s ass
Made clear his vanity.
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