Myface.com*************** Posting pretty pictures in my profile. Hoping sexy comments come in awhile. Tired of being ogled on the street. Much rather have done on-line. Simple angles make features angelic. Tube-top pantyhose bringing in the views. Have you seen my face? Getting comments from the human race. Have you been to my space? It's where my Ego fucks my ID at a gentle pace. Here are some interesting facts about my life. Books. Bands. Heroes. And dis-likes. If you're bored then browse my blog. I write intrepid tales. It's kind of like a Captains log. You can read about how many shits I took today. Or how wasted I got on the weekend break. Have you seen my face? I'm making a comment about the human race. Have you been to my space? I'm sure my semi-nudes will suit your perverted taste. Add me as your friend. Tell me where you've been. We'll share common interests. As we help each other slit our wrists. Have you found my face? Plastered all over my space? I hope you're jerking off to my profile. Just don’t forget to leave a witty comment. A funny pic or an inside joke. That only me, and my top 8 friends will get. I'll remember to fill the gun. With an all points Myspace bulletin. And if I get global attention. I'll be sure to shoot you some. Until then I'll keep up this wild goose chase. Make this digital domain my new home base. I'll continue posting pictures of my face. On my space. Until my face. And myspace. Grow old.
Novemberance************************************************ We lay a bunch of poppies on your gravestone. We talk about the struggle. Valor. And honor. We laugh off the freedom. Luxury and elite. At our age you were dying. While we were in our parents house. Looking for something to eat. Your rifle. Is our Remote. Your helmet. Defense in a war. Our ball cap. Sideways. To keep with the trend. When we die. They will just laugh it off. But for you. You get poppies on your grave.
Phony Tail**********************Someone let the proverbial copycat. Right out of its burlap sack. Pranced around doing its imitators dance. Sniffing out new material before it attacks. Paws. Claws. Discharge. Every line you write. Just isn’t yours. Paws. Claws. Do harm. Go take a catnap without an alarm. Someone let the proverbial hack. Straight out of its burlap sack. Read things which began to fascinate. Sudden urge to duplicate. A self-absorbed pussy with a need re-generate. Ideas better off like turds in the litter box. Don’t let your chickens roost with a fox. Keep ingenuity behind closed locks. Paws. Claws. Discharge. Copycat’s got you by the tongue and cheek. Paws. Claws. Discharge. Nothing but a reasonable facsimile. A glint of creation caught your eye. Followed by your need to capitalize. Too lazy. Gotta save time. Travel tracks others left behind. You’re the pioneer of plagiarize. Puss and Bootleg is your new disguise. Each idea stolen to help publicize. Your inability to garner the public’s eye. Nine lives won’t help you survive. You’ll need much more then that. Because there is more then one way to skin a copy cat. Imitation’s the best form of flattery. But I’d prefer assault and battery. There’s more then one way. There’s more then two ways. There’s more then all of that. There’s a million and one ways to skin a copycat.