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Archive for January, 2009

Bachelorette party
takes a turn for the creepy
when ’Top and Gene show.

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Drowning in denim,
I gasp for air as my lungs
fill with fuzzy frill.

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Bash Brother be gone!
Thou shalt fault ’gainst a Partridge
and die tattooed freak.

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Esc’lating fatso,
shifting about nervously:
“Who farted?  Not me.”

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The publishing world
has hit lows of late: sales drop
and Sanjaya signs.

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Warhol would be proud, darling…

Bride of Blackenstein,
ascending from grave like a
Misfit in morning.

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Chocolate made man
melts with joy, making muscles
rise like a brown tide.

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Ninety-nine reasons
not to cross these paths—make it
one hundred and one.

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Who is that masked fan?
Soothsayer predicting plague? 
Brad’s jilted stalker?
 
 
(Five extra credit points will go to the first Ai – Sac student that can tell me which Shakespeare play both the title and the poem are referencing.)

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Papa Pitt Packs Progeny

By Button standards,
is that an old man?  Because
he does look like one.

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