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