I hope you get anally pilloried by 100 chewable centrum tablets. May you mother rot under the weight of her tonnage of scabbie feces. May your father have a starring role in an ATT Digital Cable commercial, as Robby!
May widdle dums and thiddle thumbs paradoy your way,
Two cents are worth an ender’s dearth on any other day,
Corpusles burst and birth comes first while you sleep and lay,
YOur sister wouldn’t sleep with you, on asking she said nay.
You’re such a poet, oldie. Are you going to send flowers with that love poem? I hear Ender likes daisies.
Oh yeah, and Flypsyde can go felch himself with a Crazy Straw, too!
watch this thread go on and on about men loving men…but my post gets closed.
yeah, go felch some thingy thing.
Yeah and Demo can go fuck himself with a bony squirrel penis! 
Molson, your threads get closed because you’re a fucking idiot.
That Ender guy is hella cool though.
When Ender asks a starfish kiss,
she offered to preform his bris,
but with no dick he couldn’t piss,
his party he did sadly miss.
Feel your flesh crawling,
in panic and in pain,
hear your babies bawling,
as I eat your brain.
I can be hella cool too…whatever the fuck hella cool is.
…I knew this place was full of racists.
Further proof that Rasa is right… :rolleyes:
Yeah oldscratch? Well, my mother had an oldscratch, she fucking blistered it when she continued to rake her fingernails across it. That’s what you are, fingernail rakings. And rasa, you’re just a lover of fingernail rakings, so how does that suit you? I thought so. Molson, you’re just a wannabe fingernail raker. You strive to be as cool as we all are. Of course I’m cooler than oldscratch, but you have to work up to being as cool as me. Rasa? no contest. I’m cooler by eons. So you can all take your crappy poetry and shove it up your crap holes, because I don’t give a farfigneuton, ya bastards.
evilbeth’s slippery sonnents roll off her crooked tongue,
truth comes from her evil mind, her words are joined as one,
if ever a wary willy wonnted in the wind,
she’d bind it up and pass it off,
just like she has me pinned.
I’ve always know that rasa’s right,
respectfull, ringed, and sure,
her flowers would be towers,
when ender’s none to pure.
Mithfully man, you’ve spake the beast!
Hulia rakes the wood.
We’ll take you bones for our feast.
and spill your blood for good.
Oldscratch told me what he likes to do. I think it’s sick. Sick and wrong. I won’t even repeat it for fear that it gets deleated, but suffice it to say, three sheep and a goat aren’t feeling quite so fresh right now. You want a poem? You want a poem? Fine, you got one
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
oldscratch can bite my hairy tanned ass
and the rest of you can too.
Oh, not so refined? Fine.
Oldscratch to be, or not to be?
That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous tips
Or to take arms against an enraged octopus.
Because octopuses have lots of arms. Or is that squids?
Anyway, arms are flying all over the place, and some are hitting oldscratch. So there.
Ender, you say the sweetest things…
I used to have a monkey. A cribbage he would play,
I’d prod him in the evelmuch and flog him in the day,
Sinnewy scars couldn’t rot his fulminos face in deed
so I named him Ender24 and fed him fresh farm feed.
Coiling! Spoiling! Roiling seas! Blark and sugfulmux,
No one knows or really cares what creatures ender fucks,
Eat his eye. Pupilia stink. A fresh rolling in a big brass sink,
Rotting Motting Hauting Flesh… The kind you do not dink.
If executed again his will, would leave his frogs to me,
want them? eat them? give them to a frenchman full with pee?
or would ender simply throw his lunch upon the floor,
with bile, and last year’s twinkee, leaving room for more?
With ender we know sure for once,
he would love to make us wince,
sea monkey lust consumes the dunce,
much like it did poor prince.
There once was an oldscratch from Fransisco
Who loved the stale crackers from Nabisco
He met with some pain
when he got his ass whooped by Micheal Caine
Because he’s the mac daddy from “Blame it on Rio.”
So you see, oldscratch, you cannot touch me, because as i go off to bed, I won’t even be thinking of you. And that, dear sport, is the worst insult of them all. Touche`. Checkmate. Seven No Trump and I’m shooting the moon.
Coating honey and money flows,
On ender a fabulous hookworm grows,
in the night it often glows,
and crawls back up his nose.
Blanched, braised and bruised in the bone,
a mother seeks a warmer tone,
she drops her child in the night,
and takes to the sea in frightened flight.
The child it flicks and flimpers and flows,
and under it’s skin an infection grows,
to blizzard forth like wimple waves,
and abscess’ form like deep deep caves,
soon a chuckling, buckling, fuckling toy,
used and coozed by Uncle Roy,
who grows up to a malfodinian man,
and disapoints masses like only ender can.
He joins a bifoycordius board,
and sings praises to a snakelike lord,
his posts make little sense at all,
have I told you of his problem with alcohol?
Bleating cretins, newborn sheep.
crackpipes, and posies keep.
A matter settled before I sleep.
firm corn will almost always weep
and on modular mission of solemn infitity,
Ender’s assured his place in the trinity.
Of what must you ask, as shelcats do trumpet.
I’ll tell you at once my remusy strumpet.
Napoleans, and inagural poo,
and of course ender is in there too.
Sea? Doob? Demo? Jack Batty? Psy? Sue? Can I come stay with you guys? scratchie is scaring me…
There once was a hambone named Ender,
who while mixing drinks in his blender.
Toppled it from the counter,
straight down on his mounter.
And now he is newly transgender.
No way, Rasa. Do you really think I want a raging, versified oldscratch banging on my door in the middle of the night?
Author’s note: this space was to be filled with a witty poem which was to be an example of what oldscratch might spout in verse if he were actually banging on my door looking for his true love. Unfortunately, the only thing I could rhyme with “Rasa” was “Que Pasa”, and my poetry skills are generally shitty in the first place, so you’re just going to have to use your imagination
Rasa Rasa
She rarely ever flossa
from her teeth grow wild mossa
‘cause of the salad that she does tossa
and the noodles in her pasta
that she eats with ol’ dirty bosta
who is a child she must fosta
and this rhyme with be the losta.
scratchie, scratchie, naughty scratchie,
Hush, you squalling thing, I say.
Peace this moment, peace, or maybe
Bodoni will pass this way.
scratchie, scratchie, he’s a giant,
Tall and black as Rouen steeple,
And he breakfasts, dines, rely on’t,
Every day on trolly people.
scratchie, scratchie, if he hears you,
As he gallops past the house,
Limb from limb at once he’ll tear you,
Just as pussy tears a mouse.
And he’ll beat you, beat you, beat you,
And he’ll beat you all to pap,
And he’ll eat you, eat you, eat you,
Every morsel snap, snap, snap.
Ender, let me guess - pitcher of Bloody Mary as a hangover cure?
Um. I think I like Jack’s non-poem better, Ender.
I do too floss!