This Parental Advisory with capital P and capital A,
Is To Warn,
That this poem is a fucking, cunting, explicit,
One.
And if you're a parent,
And if you're under eighteen,
Then, well, it's too late for you.
And what did you do?
Well it's still not too late to
Sign Up:
Those philistines you're nearly.
Just fight it.
This is a factotum parental advisory.
In fact,
This is the world's first fucking explicit parental advisory;
Please be warned then,
That this fucking poem has fucking swear words in -
Lots of them,
And when you're least fuckin' expecting it.
Cunting.
You may have fucked up your own life by now,
Please don't say you haven't:
You're reading this.
Don't let your kids read poetry,
Especially jejune, fucked-up verse.
Ban this explicit, cunting, fucking exploding cock
of a so-called fucking poem.
Maybe if your parents..
Ah,
You wouldn't have ventured and supped from this crayon,
And from this filthy poison-ink well.
All your dreams gone and going, going,
Everything you once hated now lactating life
longing long-life,
Skimmed,
Semi-conscious asses milk,
Fortified with thorns, and,
A halo of flies around a princess,
Two for the price of
None.
There's nothing to see here, please move on.
Bargain.
Just can't make it can you?
Think the poet clever?
Rhyming purple with, uh, dark purple? Oh yeah, oh yeah!
Doesn't rhyme, Pine:
Cheating.
Free verse poetry is lazy and absurd,
(You get the point?),
For,
You cannot make oysters from custard pearls,
That stream of consciousness,
Is steam-puddles for girls.
Like a Buddhist on a pogo stick without a carrot for a light bulb:
Birds sing from twigs,
But bricks don't shit.
Think about it mister man,
Think about it.
Everything gravitational,
You cannot eat a scientist from a periodic table,
(Unless it's Mayan).
And a scientist fell from an apple tree.
So
I
Won't
Go
On.
And this was the world's first cunting explicit parental advisory,
And for a fucking poem!
This explicit parental advisory was bought on your behalf by:
Cluster bombs on lead guitar,
Another Politician With Vision on your bass case,
A Daily Express seer on triangle,
The four pony-fuckers of the new and improved apocalypse
on the do-ron-ron Nero fiddling calypso,
Concerned Mothers For Assault Weapons And Against Bad Poets
That Swear For No Fucking Reason I Can See
on bazooka,
Fundamentalists and celebrity fundamentalist atheists
on each other,
America Junior
on God Knows What(TM),
Distraught conspiracy theorists
on silenced silencer tamborines,
Sell-out musicians
on advertising trampolines,
And last-but-by-no-means-least,
The Conived Consensus Jazz Ensemble
on
Banging
Whose
Drum?
And,
Most deceased poets,
Especially those liberal-elite dead French ones,
Who gilded their lily livers in the Euro Trash Salons of Syphilis...
Where are they now?
Their faces eaten off..
So what does that tell ya?
What does it fuckin' tell ya, soldier?
What does it fuckin' tell ya?
So,
Whose your daddy?
Whose the superman?
Whose the fuckin' unicorn?
