Midnight sausage: value pack, Diana Sauce seeping from every crack.

Flames, licking, beg for the sizzles, Carnal juices flow like wet Ms. Frizzle. Meat on the grill. Sangria chill. Now only time before I get my fill.

Midnight sausage thick and crispy, Your meat beauty makes me tipsy.

Your flavour’s ripe with blended spices - You’ll soon be mine in bite-sized slices. Give me the burn you know I’ve earned - Sexy mouth times, it’s my turn.

Midnight sausage, toasted bun - When i’m through, you’ll be well done.

I was brought up right, no questions there,
in a small rural town sans une au pair;
long summer nights spent in the great outdoors,
with buxom lassies on all fours.

But I confess, I do digress from my central thought.
What I wished to say this fine day was ‘is implies an ought.’

Now hold your horses you young buck, that’s a little out of line.
You just can’t go contradicting the great thinkers of our time!

Well yes, I can, you smarmy dick, my preamble was sound.
Look in your heart and you will know: I’m the most well-brought-up guy around.

I was brought up right, you know you know
my seeming stability isn’t a show;
look at my face, now that’s a face you can trust
a face you want motorboating your splendiferous bust.

Impeccable upbringing, well done parents, you sure do know your stuff.
Book smarts, street smarts, charm and poise keeps me perpetually nose deep in muff.

Hold on, wait there, stop that talk, I’m not sure I quite believe,
when you’re so busy, busy getting busy, how is it that you breath?

I’ll give this to you straight no chaser, I owe you that, I do—
I have a snorkel for my nose to eat out ‘til my tongue turns blue.

I was brought up right, statement of fact,
engaging in only the most tasteful of tasteful sex acts;
I’m responsible, trustworthy, not accident prone —
everyone’s thinking it: “the perfect chaperone”

Hello summer! Hello spring!
Good day to you you naughty thing!
Today’s the day I await all year,
and start the day with cool crisp patio beer and cheer -
you know the reason;
Flip Flop Season!
It’s winter treason -
Flippity Flop da Flip Floop Season.

I want to tell the story of a young fat boy of twelve;
needless to say, each night he’d pray,
he could reach the cookie shelf.

Fingers soiled from smudged ink,
t’was writing, a thought one deigned to think
but not one word deserved a pulpy home
(no one is home in dusty tomes)
where beauty lives all on her own,
waiting, fireside, the phone.

Fingers soiled from a wasted hour,
t’was glossy eyes for ugly flowers
and every one deserved a finite place
(but beauty lives outside of space)
in darkness struggling to keep warm,
waiting, fireside, the storm.

Fairies flit amongst the flowers;
for dreams and wishes will they scour,
until upon the chiming hour,
the fairies fruitful flitting scour
amongst the flowers on the hour
sours.

The flitting fairies tiring gaunt
will slow until the pace will haunt
and creatures watching start to taunt
the flitting fairies slowing gaunt
in lieu of wises fairies want
all they receive is silent exeunt.

Honesty poured out in words sans write rewrite rethink -
A simply flow from heart to soul to parchment pen and ink.

Go forth rhythm, go forth rhyme - go forth and die before your time,
leaving remnants of your spirit, gently season and pan-sear it
to make the perfect distillation of a verse wrought in desperation -
pending my swift quick castration - in the name of art.

Well placed pen strokes (wrists kept loose),
but darling really what’s the use?
I’m riding in the red caboose en route to the ready noose -
obtuse, I am obtuse - obtuse.

Nature is more beautiful on an iPad screen,
with colours better than sky blue or leafy leaf green.
(Don’t you know there is) so much to see, so much to do -
with four times more pixels than an iPad 2.

Nietzsche is more sensible on an iPad screen,
with crystal clear text to awaken the keen teen.
(Don’t you know there is) simply too many apps for what he said to be read -
but 3.1 million pixels says God isn’t Dead.

Life is more beautiful when ordered and clean,
shining with indelible chemical sheen,
rendered correctly, crisper than dreams -
on the now-new-exciting get-one-quick iPad screen.

The hour was late, my mind sedate
when thoughts of smooth skin came to mind.
It just might be, the clock had struck
that extra special time.

It may be time to shave my balls,
clear cut my hirsute zone,
to trim the bush that hides inside
my shameful vanilla cone.

The hour was late, when fate
decides to rear its ugly head.
One misplaced stroke, my razor spoke
for solemn, dripping, red.

Blasting bitches one by one
is not my idea of wholesome fun.
Blasting bitches two by two,
now that’s a wholesome thing to do.

Santa Claus once asked me: “Son,
what is your idea of wholesome fun?”
I responded as I knew how:
“Bitches, two, for me to plow”

They came from left and from right,
they came in gaggles to my might,
for in one night’s time they’d get their fill
of sloppy joe with extra dill.

There is beauty in a bitch that’s fast.
There is beauty in a bitch that lasts.
Bitches future and bitches past,
there is beauty in a bitch to blast.