A professor of writing once told his class that a good project would be to write a sonnet every day for a year. It was absolutely impossible, he said, to write 365 bad sonnets in a row. I've always wondered if he was right.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
#441: Don't Get Me Started
Those motherfucking cocks! They don't know shit!
They act like someone gave them a degree
in Ignoramus Arts and Bastardy.
Too harsh? Bub, you don't know the half of it.
So high and mighty, putting on them airs--
much better than the likes of me and you!
That's what those asshats think. As if their poo
was fresh and sweet as roses! Ah, who cares?
Real guys, like us--the hearty, hale and sound
who work to make our pay--we know what's what.
Don't need to tell you which one is your butt
and which a goddamn crater in the ground!
But them? Those fucks? They couldn't find their asses
with flashlights, maps, and magnifying glasses.
Labels:
Hate Sonnets,
Humor
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