GET OUT YOUR HANKIES

You stripped for me like Turpentine,
And underneath oh how your boobies shine,
Like cups bowls of grapefruit,
Withered by the Florida sun,
Can I tell em that I really never had one?

Spirit of a comedian channeled through gefilta fish breath,
I'll take my life on the rocks, cooled down like Dima and Seth.
If you've seen me hammered singing Kisses Beth,
Wait until you see me eat your Crystal Meth.

Burning loins bring forth fruity invaders of sexual entropy,
You had chemistry with that Rhinoceros posing as a voluptuous urchin.
Urgently, your foot long tongue stretches to your outtie belly button,
If only Rapunzel had tongue hair.

Sitting on pencils,
Wrapt in the blessed vinegar stench of a golden shower,
Stomach turning round like a microwave hot dog;

Approach, young maiden,
Bow down before Aunt Jemima's vagina,
Before Famous Amos' nude picture of John Stamos,
Before Corsican whores licking 's'mores,
Before my incipient urge to rid myself of dimples and pimples.

It's simple:

If you sport your bread basket in a upright manner,
Lebanese dictators will brand you an ethnic perpetrator of lonely lust.
Dry wetsy whispering in my ear to pass the peas,
But they fall in her lap like the clap on New Year's Eve.

Mets fans get out your hankies,
Get ready for your spankees,
Because you can't crush the heart of the New York Yankees.

{POETRY}