A song of the fascist insurgents Who flow in like a stream They ransacked the capital Living that wild dream Happy they are Happy they be What’s in the future? Who can foresee? In defense of lawn order With jockey statuary to match They got all tore up In that dang briar patch!
Just like that bluebird of happiness A purchase in the tree Who sings that catchy song Called “Woe is me! Woe is me!“
They sing like canaries Trapped in a coal mine, it’s a living And the stool pigeons back it Because those bird brains there Haven’t figured out it’s all a racket.
Please enjoy this festive jingle, a little song set to the music of that other song about the feast of Stephen’s. And have a lovely new year.
— DavidRaffin.com —
John Wayne Gacy Was a clown Who had a love of Chil-dren What he charged For sir-vices Was well within his Rea-son. Considering his efforts great He put forth every Sea-son Morning, noon, and eS-pec’lly night But Sundays off for grie-ving. Hmm. To keep your act Fresh These holi-days Use citrus fresh de-greaser In powder, li-quid or handy wipe For any Gosh Darn rea-son. Hmm.
Soren Kierkegaard was a great Dane. Once one knows this, philosophy can never be quite the same. It is true platonic philosophy never runs against the grain. However, wherever Heidegger lifted his leg he always left a nasty stain. Friedrich Nietzsche cocked his head, as many mammals do, smiled and said, “That’s quite a refrain, I have written many good books too.” Jean Paul Sartre wandered out to ponder upon the city zoo. He was also interested, very, in what was what and whether or not it any of it was true. “Who’s to say?” cried Ludwig Wittgenstein, “And-further who can know? The experience which each one gets when each does stub thine own toe?” My experience with old Lao-Tze has more meaning than you could ever know. I sometimes cite his poetry whilst pissing in the snow.
When I went to the grocery store I didn’t come for biscuits. In the aisle near the door, there was biscuit on the floor. And all over his mother screamed, Removing her face mask come what hell brings. “Biscuit!” she shouted out loud Sputtering her sputum into that hot crowd. “Biscuit!“ she did shout again Because repetition to her was no grievous sin. “Mama!” Biscuit shouted in return He ran through the store Like a fever does burn. I’m sorry I don’t know how This story ends, But I hope I survive To come again.
Let me tell you all a story ‘bout a man name Trump a simple minded bumpkin with a head full of fluff, he wouldn’t wear a mask now the Twitter corps says you can’t wish him ill because he is our fascist Prez.
The Naval base doctors gather around his sickness bed to determine if he is in or out of his head, it’s a difficult thing for a military doctor to declare because it all depends on the meaning of the word there.
He is well. He’s well. In fact he’s doing so gosh darn swell. He’s a pigheaded sturdy son of a gun that’s why we’ve had to put him on oxygen.
He’s well. He’s well. In fact he’s rather gosh darned swell. We’ve started him on steroids to correct his old hemorrhoids, it’s a comorbid condition as well.
Now when we said the president he would pull through, we said that because we’re messengers of his corporate crew, but to give the man the free will that is every man’s due we’re not absolutely entirely sure that’s completely true.
He’s well. He is well. In fact he’s extraordinarily swell. So we’ve upped the F’ing steroids which is a term we use in relation to how we administer them, And he’s doing extremely extraordinarily and fashionably well!