A Morning Poem

I woke early one morning,
The earth lay cool and still,
When suddenly a tiny bird,
Perched on my window sill,


He sang a song so lovely,
So carefree and so gay,
That slowly all my troubles,
Began to slip away,


He sang of far off places,
Of laughter and of fun,
It seemed his very trilling,
Brought up the morning sun.

I stirred beneath the covers,
Crept slowly out of bed,
Then gently shut the window,
And crushed his fucking head,


I'm not a morning person.




THE PERFECT MAN

The perfect man is gentle,
Never cruel or mean;
He has a beautiful smile,
And keeps his face so clean.

The perfect man likes children
And will raise them by your side.
He will be a darn good father
And a husband to his bride.

The perfect man loves cooking,
Cleaning and vacuuming, too.
He'll do anything in his power
To show his love to you.

The perfect man is sweet,
Writing poetry in your name.
He's a best friend to your mother
And kisses away your pain.

He never makes you cry
Or hurt in any way.
Oh, fuck this stupid poem...
The perfect man is gay