Bored Again

  I’m bored again, dear God, you big beardy bodyguard parked on your cumulus, captain and protector of the planet (so the Pope keeps typing onto his computer), so why catapult catastrophe, why visit our writhing lives with visions of hefty thick filth shifting from human life to life and shore to shore, why? Through hubris or something? Nothing here

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Deception

Intro: up to 50 words (delete this text and enter your own)   ‘I’m planning on springtime and warm April showers,’ said the weather. And the daffodil listened deep in its bulb, curled with its flower buds tightly together. ‘Unwrap your green leaves and prepare for the sun,’ said the weather.   The rain it fell warmly on unfrozen earth,

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Climerihewicks

  Benjamin O. Zephaniah, past drug-test, beyond breathalyser, imagined a world free from bigotry’s squelch, in which all Negroes spoke Welsh.   Jawaharlal Pandit Nehru had rather a sensible hairdo. First leader of India, best friend of Gandhi. That must’ve come in quite handy.   Leon Davidovitch Trotsky, though Russian, I’m certain, could not ski or use any snow-tool. Just

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Clerihews

  Adolf Hitler was peeved that Germany was littler than Russia. He didn’t invent the walkie-talkie. But proudly, he invented the marchie-shoutie.   Osama bin Laden at the turn of the millennium achieved stardom, one of his finest hours, when he may or may not have knocked down the twin towers.   Charles Bukowski didn’t always have a house key

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Limericks

  There was an old churchman from Limerick who believed his behaviour was chivalric, for he only would force himself on a horse in the boundaries of his own bishopric.   There was a young lady from Penge whose minge was as wide as Stonehenge. Her vaginal fluids would froth like some druids were brewing a spell of revenge.  

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the little grey lady of the sea

Martha’s Vineyard is running fat with high-end Bermudas Melissa Odabash beachwear – well-heeled bohemia let’s escape take a boat trip to Nantucket we loved that spring  at the cedar-shingle hotel with the creaking rusting sign and the little grey creaking maîtresse de maison who brushing the stoep with a besom broom sang Huguenot villanelles each day before dawn racing rattling

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Please Don’t Call Me Sexist!

  I’ll say that compliments can hurt you and men should all obey a curfew, believe in nothing but my virtue, just please, don’t call me sexist!   I’ll claim to praise the female shape is just another form of rape, I’ll liken Mozart to an ape, just please, don’t call me sexist!   I’ll nod along to your complaining

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