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Poem

Once the Sinis floppers' nerves acted up in bunches, 
Scandinavians had no way to head off sucker punches.
Sacks of scamming slapstick, slap bass,
and farcefest, thick and fast, came to pass.
Not a clod of sunstruck dung by a donkey's ass 
shines half as dazzlingly as these necks brass.

Fingers burnt, floppers' brash necks scrounged no warm and fuzzy;
Heart burnt, the propagandist's poor mouth popped up buzzy.
Not a hot knife cutting through butter 
goes half as quickly as he springs to sputter.
Except for words of clutter, foams spattering shutter,
what else can be extracted from that mouth of the gutter?


Low legs pretend to mount high horse;
Prayers of prey preempt provegan pulpit,
howling: How can you hunker without remorse,
each slumgullion-swamped Swedish culprit?

Street of serenity in for boars to roar ,
hall of harmony in for a flea to take the floor.
new moon in for all ground rock-and-roll, full in for truculent troll.
Hence spins Sinis trumpet: to sweep away the stick in our craw,
to swerve Sweden's stance suffices only one last straw.
Actually how does Sweden react to the drill of dross droll? 
Simply cutting them dead and going on with leisure stroll.

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