UnPoetia:The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas

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(Obamafication)
m (Reverted edit(s) of 200.69.251.157 (talk) to last version by Flutter)
 
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They serve Tex-Mex and unrefined stolen oil.
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{{UnPoetia}}
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Begin typing your masterpiece below. You may wish to format lines
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:Like this, or
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:''Like this, or even''
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Obamafication.
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[[Image:Best little.jpg|right]]
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:''In the city ashore There lived a whore,''
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:''Her stomach starved for flour Spread eagle on the floor.''
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:''The truckles came aboard And she was left all floored,
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:''No one cared for her pain. It was all about gain.''
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:''The bitches in the house Were all scared of the mouse.''
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:''No one was alert enough To even hear her cough.''
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:''She screamed and moaned Till it appeared she was moaned.''
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:''The trucker was having fun As his hand reached out for his gun,''
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:''And in the still of the night He heightened her sense of fright.''
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:''And shot the whore in her ass So there stood the lass Who was stoned by the gas.''
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:''She could feel no pain There was nothing left to gain.''
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:''She moaned in ecstasy As he crept out of his darkest fantasy.''
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:''And she lay there alone Wanting to go home.''
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:''There was not an iota of shame And the writer thinks the poem is lame.''

Latest revision as of 05:24, December 24, 2011

Unpoetia logo Poetry for people who hate poetry
Best little
In the city ashore There lived a whore,
Her stomach starved for flour Spread eagle on the floor.
The truckles came aboard And she was left all floored,
No one cared for her pain. It was all about gain.
The bitches in the house Were all scared of the mouse.
No one was alert enough To even hear her cough.
She screamed and moaned Till it appeared she was moaned.
The trucker was having fun As his hand reached out for his gun,
And in the still of the night He heightened her sense of fright.
And shot the whore in her ass So there stood the lass Who was stoned by the gas.
She could feel no pain There was nothing left to gain.
She moaned in ecstasy As he crept out of his darkest fantasy.
And she lay there alone Wanting to go home.
There was not an iota of shame And the writer thinks the poem is lame.
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