Mike Thompson and the gals are working hard To guarantee our feticidal fun. Against those fetus-lovers Mike’s on guard. He’ll frustrate the designs of anyone Who doesn’t love abortion. As the Sun Crosses the Heavens in a chariot, So Mike will ride until the job is done, Employing all his strength and all his wit. Around him are his planets… Muses…. Shit, I don’t know what to call them, but they’re there. With feminazi fire their hearts are lit. By slaughtering the young, they show they care. For disarticulation they parade. They’re grieving for their idol, Roe v. Wade.
Old Marse Robert Samples Aleksandr Dugin’s Vodka and Finds It Good
“Aggressive abroad and despotic at home.”
The unipolar world is at an end— Which suits me fine. The Yankees went too far, As Yankees always go. Now they descend. I’m watching their imaginary star Plummet. The tortured earth it’s sure to scar Again – a sort of global spouse abuse. But keep the victim handcuffed? No cigar. Expecting that, the Yankees prove obtuse Beyond their former measure. Fast and loose They’ve played since 1860. For a while, It served them well. But now, neck in the noose, Their empire will be throttled, and in style. And all of the disasters that we see? Predicted by the Last of Heroes, Lee.
Asked about arms and legs, abortionists Are pissed that such a question should arise. Their little hands they tighten into fists. A hot flame flares behind their angry eyes. Republicans must learn to recognize That facts aren’t facts and can’t be certified. When fetuses are slaughtered, no one dies. Dismemberment, once earnestly decried, Does not occur. And terms thus misapplied Give grave offense to baby-killing docs. Also, please now acknowledge on your side That men have wombs and women can have cocks. If you will not say this, you’re right-wing fools. You will be judged by non-judgmental rules.
The NATO bio-labs in far Ukraine, If monkeypox impends, won’t make the news. Those Russkies will inform the world in vain. They will not make a dent when they accuse The West of a proclivity to use Proxies when doing truly naughty things. What? View the facts? We’ll utterly refuse! We’ll know the peace that idiocy brings. The twerps who govern us will live like kings Forever as they piss on heads like ours. We’ll sing the song that every coward sings And grant those pricks extraordinary powers. We’ll return to the same old servile box Because we dread the lower primate pox.
Our generals – who fled Afghanistan In lame and idiotic disarray; Who earnestly believe that, born a man, A soldier can get surgery and say: “I’m woman, hear me roar;” who daily play The game of ceding space to every crank; Who like their chessboards one uncheckered gray; Who have their bribes already in the bank— Our generals are wankers. And they wank Whenever they express dismissive views Of Russia. Dominatrix colonels spank Our generals, who utter ah’s and ooh’s. Then Fox News calls them up for expert gab. Goatfuckers whip them, sure – but can they blab!
Leftists and neo-cons march arm-in-arm Against what Mother Russia seeks to do. Mark Levin yields to Biden’s goofy charm, And Victor Davis Hanson giggles, too. Volodymyr’s a hero: get a clue! His tranny status only makes him cuter. His distance makes our right-wing figures blue. They wish he’d be a close, attentive suitor. Instead, his intellect, like a computer, Evaluates logistics with precision. Toward glory he is racing on a scooter Powered by courage, principle, and vision. Neo-con hearts back here go pitter-patter. Stand with Ukraine, you know. What else could matter?
I know your sense of time is different, lord. Your one eye takes the long and thorough view. You sent a raven from your wisdom hoard To Poe, who deftly grasped the dismal cue. Still, as is known through nine worlds, you have two. Another must have soared then through the air. The centuries since then are naught to you. So, Grimnir, is your messenger still there? Then send him winging urgently to where I wait, my mortal blood now growing cooler! I’d like to hear of how to beat despair From you, supremely doomed, the hopeless ruler. Then again, wolfish sir, I don’t insist. Too many lost Lenores are on my list.
America shares genius inspiration With the pawns that it eagerly deploys Against the feared and hated Russian nation. Hey, don’t just kill invading Russian boys! When they are dead, use way cool high-tech toys To find their families, then send their pics Along with some degrading e-mail noise! Yeah, that’ll teach those crazy Slavic pricks! And don’t let human decency say nix As if those Russkie types were human, too. Of all the unanticipated tricks, This one, which we enable you to do, And thus cause Russian mothers sudden pain, Is worthy of our puppets in Ukraine.
What? Ethnic cleansing in the Donbass? Hey, If Russian speakers didn’t want to learn Ukrainian, then fuck them up, we say. To hell or Moscow let them all return. In how these pricks were treated, we discern No crime. If 14,000 of them died, They no doubt had it coming. Russkies earn Their fates. Request for sympathy: denied! When Putin intervened, though, then we cried Aloud that decency must be upheld. Our moralizing we declined to hide. Tremendous teardrops in our eyeballs swelled. We didn’t let our rush to judgment stall. No, sir. We are the good guys, after all.
A Serious Inquiry into the Truth of Scurrilous Accusations
“Shea is a chronic gay porn masturbator.” I said it once – but, really, is it true? Back then, I put such questions off till later— As jeering satirists must often do. Fat Boy, who never had the slightest clue, Insulted Tulsi Gabbard, who’s a fox. I stuck up for that goddess right on cue. I figured Shea had merited hard knocks. As Stoicism teaches, calmness rocks— And now I’m calm. What say you, Mr. Shea? Is nasty right-wing bigotry a box That you escape by watching guys gone gay? Is chronic self-abuse your chosen tonic? “Depends on what you mean,” he says, “by chronic.”
(Once again, de rigueur, I am not here literally asserting that this particular vice should be added to Shea’s public list — just that its mention conveys metaphorically something about his essential character. No, the Self-Proclaimed Archetypal Hero didn’t really answer as in line 14, or give any answer at all. He seldom does — probably because he’s been told I want him to challenge me to a duel, so that I can choose lethal weapons. We share a common vacation spot — Lopez Island, Washington — so there is a convenient site for his fortuitous defeat in mortal combat. Ha! Shea doesn’t even want to fight a duel in the sonneteering realm! He’d get his oversized posterior booted hard on that island, too.)