"Big Orange versus Orange"
Seems like the rusty android, Peyton Manning, played 37 years for UT;
Nevertheless, it was Tee Martin who scored them to victory;
Regardless, back when dubbed "the Orangemen"
Syracuse was cooler than Sherilyn Fenn,
With a name not to blame,
Yet now: let the ORANGE have pigskin synergy and play for that hue's fame;
Indeed, the Orange Bowl will never be the same,
For braggadocio should be this color's claim.
"Having a werewolf pet"
Way middle down in Tennessee,
Where country music don't sing about true, American victory,
Hiding behind the strict corners of the flag,
Not knowing: the shimmering stars and lambent stripes give larger brag;
Alas, my pet werewolf stole my bone;
Thus, I hunt for America in the inhuman woods alone,
Finding my crop, and hunting the swift, Canadian goose
To bring back to my werewolf--I never let him loose.
Or is it me?
Duh, I'm so unaware of my dualistic destiny.
"Hayride Hallelujah"
The True Artist, forged from Himself,
Always hanging on Pre-Creation,
Existing due to a stubborn spirit of determination--ahem:
Alas, country lass is passionately ignited,
And man, if armed with couth and charm, can get her dance deliciously excited;
Thus, lovingly lasso the sicko, and unleash your best beast,
For a beautiful woman, so many, will submit and spark to firework heat--
Roll in them balls of thunder; plus, pour her purr some alcohol,
Knowing: Love-Trusting transcends the Garden's self-admiring fall.
"Jazzmin Flush (70)"
Months, even more into the future, had been like a dream, dealing with a concussion, her brain having bounced and banged against the skull, sinking Jazzmin Flush into a hypnotic state, like perpetually fed nerve pills from the mouth of a Pez Dispenser, Popeye the Sailor Man spitting the tranquil euphoria experienced by most Millennial Women; plus, they always mixed red wine with them for greater elation.
And Rascal's wily belly was blooming, pre-birthing a litter of roustabouts ranging wildly in her coydog womb, snacking on baby crackers from the inside, and infused with her cellular structure to be, at least, mildly obedient. Donald Flush was proud yet poignant, pointing philosophically to the eccentricities of life.
Thomas, well, always at Jazzmin's golden side as she healed and digested her mild disgust, not wanting to be a nasty, resentful big sister. That would suck for the little peckers and pansies on the way to Rascal's cupcake cleavage for some dog milk.
"Want some shrimp, Bubba?"
When I indulge in the shellfish shrimp--you must cook;
Otherwise, I'll have gastrointestinal movement like the Chess Piece, Rook,
Wending linear till expunged and out;
Hence, pasteurize the bacteria without a doubt;
Alas, I usually adhere to smoked, Alaskan salmon,
And I believe the Apocryphal Books to be canon.
Post Script:
Dude back in Arkansas during the Reagan 80's used to stay at all the rural parties till the end--this due to the axiomatic fact that all the heavy-set girls would stay till the end--the slim ones leaving early with the carnally-crazed dogs; anyway, he'd hook a big one every time he endured long partying hours involving Southern Comfort and Cheetos. Thus, they called him: BUBBA CHEESE. God Bless BUBBA CHEESE in this America.
"Jazzmin Flush (69)"
The neon lines, resonating, barfing out the delicious past and its stink never cleaned up by the low income Mexicans--it was--futurity/now--beyond. All gelling for America's once-dreamed purpose, yet iniquity still lurks within as Ronald Raygun instructed the world. And Jazzmin didn't entirely loathe Rascal as she dreamed, giggling, laughing, feeling the precious pins and needles of moderate pain and elation--from sins and more sins--these necessities of life. Yet, things soooooooo fun, if you let them. And Thomas slurping her into consciousness with his almost fuchsia-hued tongue, now happily licking her, bringing the gold open in her California eyes, them crowned by an almost brunette brow, giving Jazzmin Flush the perfect symphony of religious counterpoise. It's good to love the superlative God.
"Jazzmin Flush (68)"
Rascal had never called "no stinking cop" her entire dog life, but she did, and happily watched them cuff and clasp Merlin Pope, stealing him off the streets and into the under-funded jails where bologna sandwiches and skim milk were the order of the day, sometimes considered a delicacy. Afterwards, she got dressed in her mechanic's jump suit, the couthless cops melancholy made as they exited the crime scene, Rascal's cupcake cleavage, not jiggly, yet solidly firm and uncaged--this haunting their carnal reflections when reminded of being on the dangerous job.
"I'm so sorry Jazzmin." Rascal turning to the California blonde. "I was in heat, and your Dad is really nice and cute too."
"Oh don't talk to me." Jazzmin Flush with nose up. "And I'll say this with as much sophistication as I can muster--you're an incapable bitch. Incapable of having friends."
"You can't kick me out of the pack. It's larger than just your California gold and all that holy-reeking crap. Plus, I think I'm pregnant, and my pups will be your nieces and nephews."
Jazzmin collapsed. Bit the unconscious dust. Life is good when you're under.
