Ode to a shitlord
 

with apologies to William, a sonnet for a shitlord:



Shall I compare thee to an eggy fart?
Thou art more rancid and less welcome.
Foul wind doth shake the crusty scabs of ass,
That taco’s lease had too short a sell by date.
This time too hot the ring of fire burns,
And now his pale complexion dimmed;
And though the anal mush sometime declines,
In truth this is a cruel unnatural wind.
But thy eternal rankness cannot fade
Nor lose the lordship of that shit thou ow'st;
Nor may reason brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When for eternity thy ass will grow'st,
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So thou art shit, and shit gives life to thee.

and here's an earlier one.


Here, where the vile shitlords foul
And spew their midnight moans,
Fierce wanking o’er carcase growl,
And Franny sucks on bones.

No normal man shall earn such fate,
Where inner thought must die;
Unless false Gods drawn to their bait,
Shall see the craven cry.

Yes! You resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This forum rush a dagger through,
With joy as others rue it!

Cunt! What a cunt the Francis sheeple
who pleasures never know;
No friends, and wholly fecal
By Christ deserted too?

To ease him of this power to think,
That never through him raves,
A headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow as a slave.

Though assclowns yell, with phony Lords
May waken long regret;
The frightful queens, and milling hordes,
Will all too soon forget.

Yes! You're prepared, through endless shite,
To take that inner mirth
Think not with tales of wank to fright
And laugh as those are damn’d on earth!

Sweet shit! come forth from out your arse,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
tug on the organ of your faith,
And dream of golden showers!

Shitlord! It quivers in your heart
Which drives you to this end;
you draw and suck the eggy fart,
Francis—your only friend!

You do tempt this inner spearshaking poetman:


How do you shit on me? Let's count the ways;
Your shit doth choke the depth and breath and height
that man can reach; a brown sea blocks my sight,
of putrid anal seepage set ablaze.
Your shit intensifies beyond the point
of mortal comprehension and good sense;
it demonstrates you lack intelligence,
at every turn you fail and disappoint.
You shit with such a gleeful ignorance
and wallow in your filth with such delight
so blinded by your blissful arrogance
You dare to slander us and to indict
Your academic elders? Your defense
is shit, and so is everything you write.

Shitstorm #116

Let me not to the texture of true shit
Admit incontinence. Shit is not shit
Which splatters when it chicken marsala finds,
Or strains with the remover to remove it:
O no! it is an ever-shapely log
That swims afloat, in faith ne'er shaken;
It is avatar to every barking Jeetard,
Who's of high renown, though his brains be taken.
Shit's not Time's stool, through pungent crack and cheek
From bended knee and surly squat:
Shit alters not with his burly reek,
But cranks one out to fill the porcelain pot.
If this be error and upon me spat,
I never wanked, nor no fool ever shat.

that's fucking beautiful man.

This is sick, very very sick,..................................& yet strangely compelling & humorous.

To shit or not to shit, that is the question:
Whether `tis nobler in the can to suffer
The pains and spasms of outrageous dookies
Or to take Tums against a bowl of troubles,
And by outhousing, end them. To wipe; to flush;
No more; and by a flush to say we end
The shit-storm and the thousand natural turds
These lords are heir to. ‘tis a relaxation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To wipe; to flush;
To flush: perchance to wash; aye, there’s the rub;
For in that swirling flush what turds may come
When they have spiraled down that rusty coil,
Must give us cramps: there’s the aspect
That makes inane nonsense of so long posts;
For who would bear the stink and stain of shit,
The idiot’s slurs, the shitlord’s arrogance,
The pangs of debunked points, the clog’s delay,
The insolence of uneducated fools
That ignore patient words, and patience test,
When he himself might his fool stench make
With a righteous shart? Who would fart-smells bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary shit,
But that the reek of some unholy breath,
The undiscovered odor from whose bourn
No theorist returns, puzzles the rank
And makes us rather bear that steaming dung
Than learn the many things they know not of?
Those logic does makes cowards of them all;
And thus the shitlord’s hue of burnished auburn
Is sicklied o’er with the pale lack of thought,
And non-sequitors of great absurdity
With blind belief their brains are thus shut down
And earn the name of Shitlord.

:cheers::cheers::cheers:

:sick:

'Tis but thy brain that is thy enemy;
Thou art thyself, a thorough shitlord.
What's Shit? it is not shart, nor stool,
Nor turd, nor ass, nor any other part
Belonging to a dunce. Be some other name?
What's in a name? that which we call a cunt
By any other name would sound as wrong;
So Franny would, were he not a lord of shit,
Retain that defecation which he owns
Without that title. Franny, doff thy shame,
And for that sewage which is a part of thee
Fuck off for good.

You people have too much fucking time on your hands.

Yeah :D


Behold the craptacular Francis
We give him far too many chances
The Lord of the Shit
The dimmest of wit
Who crumbles beneath our advances


Oh, and Francis: please tell me how I'm not a poet because I don't "act like one." I'm sure that composing metered lines of verse is just not enough to qualify me as a poet; I have to live up to the great Poet Personality Type as outlined by Shitlord I.

Corrupted from Robert Frost:

To the Thawing Log

Come with shit. O loud assblaster!
Bring the corn, on the wall plaster;
Give the buried turd a dream;
make the white porcelain steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
pull my finger, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
pinch a loaf and cross the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing your slurry on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.

There once was a Shitlord named Franny
Who was often mistook for a tranny
He was hung like an elf
Yet still fucked himself
By making a wife of his fanny

:lol:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while he squatted, weak and weary
Over quite a rancid, fetid volume of his anal ooze--


Kidding