Remember all those tea ads with the chimps on?
We’ll prostitute the Prague of Gustav Mahler
and desecrate the divas of La Scala.
Would Bart betray begettor Homer Simpson
(he’s not so much a whoreson as a pimp-son)
to get himself a Chevrolet Impala?
You bet he would. This is the Grab-It Gala.
The cripple pawns the plaster that he limps on.
In Pasadena, Pimlico and Perth,
the only thing we´ll go without is girth.
Where JP Morgan’s played by Colin Firth,
we airbrush self-awareness, muffle mirth,
and drown in plenty, blink at moral dearth.
We're always prizing price-tag, never worth.
Categories:
whoreson, satire,
Form: Sonnet
Thy wart-encrusted maw compellingly
constitutes a convalescant contrast
of pulchritude, most evident in earnest
and effervescent cockcrow light,
a visage matched by the craven beige
mundanity of oneself's soiled linens
which thou art so unpleasingly
plastered against, decumbent
and dishabille
the illusion of chivalry
persists into mid-morning, slightly
ante-bruncheon, climaxing
with a most unpunctilious proclamation:
Thou droning whoreson baggage!
Categories:
whoreson, anger,
Form: Free verse