[Marion Shore]

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead
Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.
We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.
Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains.

[Clay Stockton]

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead
Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.
We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.
Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains:
Aunt's brain-in-shit, the handiwork of John--
That gruesome cocktail sauce, that putrid prawn.

[Florence Campi]

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)
told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."
But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens
of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,
we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.
She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.
And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.
What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.
We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.
A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.
The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock
Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:
The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.
Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);
he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."
He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;
Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?
Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead
Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.
We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.
Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains:
Aunt's brain-in-shit, the handiwork of John--
That gruesome cocktail sauce, that putrid prawn.

Now in shit-aspic she'll come to the table,
'cause we don't want to waste a bit of Mabel.

[Terese Coe]

Bruce showed up next day and asked for Mabel.
Jones was in the basement watching cable.

[FOsen]

Since coprophilia brought this poem to stasis,
The cop was forced to search in lower places.



[This message has been edited by FOsen (edited July 11, 2004).]

[Marion Shore]

Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo.

[Robt_Ward]

Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo,
Who, having been born sans a sense of smell,
Was able to hunt Mabel through the shits of hell.


[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited July 12, 2004).]

[Clay Stockton]

. . . putrid prawn.

Now in shit-aspic she'll come to the table,
'cause we don't want to waste a bit of Mabel.
Bruce showed up next day and asked for Mabel.
Jones was in the basement watching cable.
Since coprophilia brought this poem to stasis,
The cop was forced to search in lower places.
Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo.
Who, having been born sans a sense of smell,
Was able to hunt Mabel through the shits of hell
And yet munch lunch unfazed. He loved a taco,
Cabeza most, especially ad hoc, so

[Donna English]

I thought we'd never hear the end of it
when Uncle John (the miserable git)

told us all around the kitchen table
"I'm forced to rent your home to dear Aunt Mabel."

But John and Mabel, to be precise, are cousins,
living large off relatives. Their dozens

of kids, it seems, were brought up in a stable;
they all run wild, and as for dear Aunt Mabel,

we only call her "dear" to be ironic.
She holds just one thing dear: her gin and tonic.

She drinks because she feels the gnawing guilt
Of scamming ADC up to the hilt.

And "John" ain't John ("Unc"? "Cuz"? The point is moot)--
he's Bruce. John's how he's known to prostitutes.

What John announced could not have been absurder.
It left us little choice but Mabel's murder.

We only needed plans to cover 'when'
having set a little trap up in the den.

A trail of limes that led to her Beefeaters.
We'd shoot her then we'd stab her then we'd beat her.

The Limies found her body in the moor, doc.
To find the criminal they hired Sherlock

Jones, private dick, late of LAPD,
but sacked for lepidopterology:

The net he cast to snare a porno ring
Was more butterfly than drag--a feeble sting.

Not only were his tactics ineffective,
he badly needed surgery (elective);

he asked to be called Cyrano, but no,
his buddies dubbed poor Jones "Pinocchio."

He stuck his probiscus into every aspect
of the case, and soon we all were suspect;

Still we weren't frightened by this twit--
It was the perfect crime--now, wasn't it?

Headless! Jones could not sniff out her head,
Nose or no, for when dropped, it sank like lead

Into the pool of family excrement
beneath the outhouse. That will mask the scent.

We didn't realise forensic tests
would uncover all our outhouse guests.

Still we felt sure that Sherlock "Shit-for-Brains"
Could not connect us to those foul remains.

Aunt's brain-in-shit, the handiwork of John--
That gruesome cocktail sauce, that putrid prawn.

Now in shit-aspic she'll come to the table,
'cause we don't want to waste a bit of Mabel.

Bruce showed up next day and asked for Mabel.
Jones was in the basement watching cable.

Since coprophilia brought this poem to stasis,
The cop was forced to search in lower places.

Now Jones was getting nowhere fast, the dumbo!
So he brought in a colleague, called Columbo.

Who, having been born sans a sense of smell,
Was able to hunt Mabel through the shits of hell

And yet munch lunch unfazed. He loved a taco,
Cabeza most, especially ad hoc, so

he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin




[This message has been edited by fivefootone (edited July 14, 2004).]

[Renate]

he found her. Rigor mortis had set in
her parted lips revealed a shitty grin,
a brown eye seemed to watch him from its socket
as he fumbled for the taco in his pocket.