A little overkill never hurt anyone
Besides, Babe, I’ve only just begun ✏️ 🎤 🎵

You mighty thing.
I’m sorry. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Guys, guys, guys, we’ve got the cross hung upside-down!
It’s not a thorn of crowns
That’s the wrong way! ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Pops got his Sunday wrong. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Veni, vidi, vici
Sure ain’t how it goes
You gotta take your shoes off
Feel the carpet ‘tween your toes ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Your spit gets thick
And you’re not sure why you came
The players seems nice
But it’s not your game ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Your spit gets thick ✏️ 🎤 🎵

lollipops of fate ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Either You’re magic, or I’m moody. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

a very effective hedgerow ✏️ 🎤 🎵

Let me look at my tomorrow. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

My head is full of things I do not care bout
Or should not care about, anyway
But the cost of living here
……………eer
………that’s what they say.

“Quietist!” they cry.
“Rebel!” I reply.
It’s a war for the mind, that’s for sure. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

the third of three poems submitted to the bad poetry competition in celebration of Matthew’s 42nd birthday:

After a party one weekend in Wheaton

(optionally sung to the tune of “My Favorite Things”)

Come help me clean up the saag and the red dal
Green bits of mucus and loogies in highballs
Moist wet congealments of fatbergs and thongs
Bet it’ll take you forever with tongs!

When the turd falls
When the pus dries
Need a napkin bad
I simply wrap towelettes around all the mess
And then I have made a fad!

Round ground pork meatballs
And six chocolate hair wads
Leftover skin tags from yours and my dadbods
Brown chunks of something I don’t recognize
Rub it all out with the sweat of my thighs!

When the squits land
When the bowels void
Too much egg yolk through
I simply wipe hankies with ointment galore
And try not slip on poo!

But if we get soiled and covered in feces
Looking like accidents involving Reese’s
Something you pull from a festering clog
We can still use it as stuff for our vlog

When the Musk calls
And POTUS bawls
Upon seeing that
We’ll engorge our profits on all of the press
And buy ourselves tubs of fat

the second of three poems submitted to the bad poetry competition in celebration of Matthew’s 42nd birthday:

Thoughts on Toejam

Pustule grease between my toes
Oh-so-moist, and in it goes
Sucked down my gullet, slurp yum-yum-yum
How it’ll smell when it wants out my bum!

Will I need tongs or strong vacuum birth?
How to squeeze out such congealy girth?
Will it right squish? Will it ka-slop?
Or will it be hard like the stuff in wood shop?

the first of three poems submitted to the bad poetry competition in celebration of Matthew’s 42nd birthday:

Shet

I’d yet get debt to bet that
if you let sweat wet your tête at
Brett’s jet set vet fête,
I fret they’ll never let you and your pet back into the Met.
That’s a threat.

Latitude, longitude, aye, aye, aye
If your don’t change your attitude, it’s bye, bye, bye

Might makes blight. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

All are welcome! Come on in!
Said the man in the mack with the Tommy gun. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

An unfinished verse about the problem of divine hiddenness

O, invisible God, whom I cannot see,
Please, please reveal Yourself to me.
I don’t understand what you gain by hiding,
Blah-biddy blah, biddy-blah biddy fighting.
But I know You are love, if you are anything all,
Blah-biddy blah, biddy-blah biddy fall. ✏️ 🎤 🎵

A cheer for the red team, whom we beat, 12–8, sung to the tune of “Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer”:

O, how the black team loves you,
And we’ll shout it out with glee:
Good game, Red Bull frisbee,
You’ll go down in history!

He’s Indonesian, Japanese, American, now Dutch.
Jimmy Hutasoit, we will miss you very much.
May you find a church with other folks who really really care.
Above it all, we pray, may you find Jesus Christ o’er there.

Carla: Wow, it looks like it was cold last night.
Sullivan: Well, I was as warm as a bear slumbering in the basement.

The sun woke up over Mount Nittany.

— Sullivan on a morning walk to the park

[I] want to watch the clouds fly to their beds!

— Sullivan, in smiling protest to heading inside for bed