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Bad Poetry: Everyone I Love Really Hates My Guts

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Everyone I love
really hates my guts
All that I desire
Is behind a closed door, shut.

My girlfriend, she did leave me
’cause my car is in the shop
my radiator’s hissin’
and the engine goes ‘pop.’

Most of Dali’s late stuff
Failed to impress me much
I just felt it was lacking
That greasy mustache touch.

I sent an instant message
Asked her, “what’s the deal?
I sent you packs of jello,
Is it my fault they won’t congeal?

I love the smell of vermin
On a spring or summers day
I love the smell of ermine,
That small rodent blows me away.

She sent back a response
That really teed me off
“I don’t love you any more,
I have the whooping cough.”

“You have the whooping cough?” said I.
“I do,” was what she said.
“What can I do to be of help?”
“That’s easy, buy a sled.”

“A sled?” said I, in quiet stupor.
“A sled,” said she, resolved.
“But I have no more money;
I gave it to my dog.”

“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“Really? He’s just a mutt.”
“Well, someday I’ll have to meet him.”
“No, first get a haircut.”

Bush is such a fascist.
I hope that you agree.
I wonder what a fascist is,
Or what is three times three?

She cut her hair a bargain
Yes, she cut it quite a deal
She let it watch the grass dry
And then let jello congeal.

Everyone I love
Really hates my guts (a lot)
All that I desire (really desire a lot)
Is behind a close door, shut. (definitively shut, emphatically)

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