I Wrote A Poem For Britney Spears – Look!

Please note that I am completely serious and not apologizing for my screwed up opinion here.  This was inspired by Britney, I will not hide, but I will try sauerkraut later this evening.  Enjoy!

She’s So Dead

I told you so, she boldly
Lies before her fans now cold and moldy
Makeup artists making their last stand
A swan song for the ugly duckling
She didn’t ever care who she was fuckling
So now why should we care now that she’s dead and gone
I rue the day that these shallow blondes who are propped up
By fanfare and media throngs
Become the woman’s idea of an empowered femme
Little growing girlies way to small to flaunt their
Short and curlies, same to me as little common slutttt

The trash we love and the glitter we praise
Has a leader who’s so toxic she’ll soon autograph her grave
And when she’s dead she’ll beat this eager press that turned against her
And she’ll die into legend, like a soft bed of relief afloat in silken water
She’s so dead, can’t you see?  I think you see just fine.
You just choose to be simple, boring, and blind.

But I think we know we’ve hit a new low
With the new pop slut superstar glow
When we see that now children and their parents are hurt
By the influence of intoxicating, glittering dirt
And the desire of teenies to do just the same
As what their favorite stars sell them tattooed with their name.

From heretoforth let it be clear
She’s so dead just a walking veneer
Of all that will embarrass us and shame us
In retrospect, a future to be lived


After she’s dead so maybe we can
Start over again..


Hello world!

I feel like declaring my love for bad girls.  I passionately love strippers, porn stars, and rockers.  I am aware that they only date drug-addled wife beaters, so I HAVE SOME WORK TO DO SINCE I AM NEITHER OF THESE.  Sorry for the caps.  I accidentally hit the caps lock.  I’ve been know to do that since I type with my penis.

Here’s a poem:

Up the stairs you’ll find a place to unbuckle these shoesies

and when you do you’ll see my dog.  His name is Buckley.  Your name is Chad!  Hang Chad Hang!

Never let them tell you than your brave endeavor to learn my secret was in vain.

I left you with strong goody(ie?) bag and the sun is mightly on the plain.

HAVe you no idea what this subtle yet growing noise is from the lair.

Geez, you reached this second landing, from this aforementioned parade of stairs.

It’s me and Beckie, the girl you paid for at the club last night.  I told her I loved her and she spent the night

arguing the benefits of vegetarianism and a platonic relationship between lumps of penis in her mouth.

We have no relationship so don’t scream HEY!

Hey is for horses, so gallop down those stairs and ramble on to your white jacket.  Super gay.

I want to take a nap.  My life is spicy, you are a lonely nice guy with no feet of his own

just a leash and a wheel below allowing the powers of C’Mon AMERICA! to

steel you where they may.

Just a note they told me so

they’d make me under the mask in sight, a living spot of reduction, a date, a lapse

the dog indecisive.  Beckie is hungry

your lamp is sweet.  My life is lonely so I pepper it with flesh.

Fleeting and mysetrious

like the path of the tide when it runs away to an opulent sea

never to be recombined in that manner

ever again.