The Sadness of Stephen
Kid acquitted – and Colbert is sad.
Self-defense is of course really bad
When the creeps of the Left,
Of all conscience bereft,
Spot a youngster and go murder mad.
Unlike Kamala, Liz sucks no cock.
Up her ass she feels no phallic shock.
Is there joy on her face?
She’s betraying the base!
This alone makes her shudder: “Let’s rock!”
Bountiful Lard Mutters
Who’s backing Black Lives Matter? Mark P. Shea!
He’ll back them just as long as they’re in style.
You claim his motivations here are vile?
That’s something that you’re not allowed to say!
Shea is the foremost prophet of our day.
His insights are not subject to denial.
His holy channel rocks! Don’t touch that dial!
His virtue signals ain’t just vain display.
But back to Black Lives Matter. Hey, they’re cool—
And therefore for Mark Shea a perfect fit.
He judges you a damned and hopeless fool
If you do not agree, you skinny twit!
Black lives are due for Christianoid renewal.
They need a Fat White Savior – and he’s it.
Just the Type
Rosenbaum was the type those riots drew—
A child molester, and of course sheer scum.
He rushed with boundless zeal to join the crew
Of troublemakers – worse, perhaps, than some
But not as bad as others. Rule of thumb:
If it makes punks like this feel virtuous,
And puffs with pride a crowd whose souls are numb,
The cause is fouler than a pool of pus.
The incident was not reported thus.
The pervert Rosenbaum was elevated
To Media Olympus – and a fuss
Ensued when he was rightly ventilated.
I’m told to mourn by multitudes of cunts.
Too bad the kid could only kill him once.
Seeking a Sign
“Generatio mala et adultera signum quaerit et signum non dabitur.”
Where’s the sign
that my offer of thanks
has been accepted?
Did Huber swing his mighty skateboard hard?
Was he a warrior of justice then?
Often the course of heroes is ill-starred.
Often, though frank admirers cry amen,
Things don’t go swimmingly. Unready when
The gods grow jealous of his qualities,
The hero is slapped down to earth again.
There are a lot of myths, my friend, like these.
But every sage who’s glanced his way agrees
That Huber ain’t no hero in this mold.
Huber, as great as great Achilles? Please!
Before the court, a truer tale was told.
That bitch just didn’t have the proper stuff.
He swung his skateboard – not quite hard enough.
Who Wants to Arm-Wrestle Gaige Grosskreutz?
I’m thinking of a sort of game show here.
The third guy drilled by well-armed Rittenhouse
Will, week on ever-painful week, appear
To take the medicine that such a louse
Deserves. The host could be, say, Mighty Mouse—
Who’d flash his biceps, just what Gaige ain’t got.
We’d get to hear the star (and target) grouse,
And then some guest would punish him – a lot.
Contestants would be bodybuilders – not!
Instead, I picture ladies old and frail
But eager, in their way, to have a shot
At Mr. Grosskreutz and to make him wail—
Plus, tiny children of a tender age.
Most anyone with arms can now beat Gaige.
“Why are you
looking like that?” It’s what
I look like.