Warning: This poem contains no language that can't be used on prim time T.V. but it discusses the subject in a way that will make people uncomfortable. That's the point. It's also the point that what I say will get censored while flaunting guns in shops and restaurants has more legal protection than my right to protest. But if frank language about terrorists and muderers upsets you, don't read further.
He spent the morning photographing his penis collection,
lining them up on the table getting just right glint of light on the contours
and dramatic angle of cast shadows.
did a selfie with two supersoak repeaters strapped across his chest.
Another gazing down the shafts of two 57 mag hand-jobs. He made videos,
pontificating on who he planned to screw, how he'd make them drop to
their knees and worship him.
He marched in an open-carry rally at the waffle shop, showed all those keep-your-penis-zipped activists who the real men were.
invited girls to admire his equipment but none seemed properly
impressed, possibly because none of the penises he purchased came with
An hour later, he dropped his selfie press kit
in the mail slot at the local TV station and went off to drown kittens
with his supersoaks. When someone tried to stop him he robbed the world
of his magnificence by putting his penis in his mouth and pulling the
Photo Credit: Super Soakers by Bastian at Flickr Photo Sharing.