Whose plates these are I think I know.
They’ve left them here and scarpered though;
They will not see me stopping here
To watch some new mold cultures grow.
I must admit I think it queer
That they should cook, then disappear,
A pile of dishes in their wake
To wash, perhaps, some other year.
I give my head a mournful shake
And wonder if by some mistake
They thought to clean and wash and sweep
Was someone else’s job to take.
I’d love to leave mine in a heap.
But I have promises to keep,
And pots to wash before I sleep,
And pots to wash before I sleep.
How about this one instead?
A simple rhyme, easily read
A rant about dishes
Not the first, nor the last
Have you considered simply washing them?
Or even shoving them up your ass?
OK, here is my pit poem. I don’ t know jr8, and don’t have any dislike for him/her, its just real easy to find words to rhyme with their name. Hopefully no hard feelings . Now my lame assed pit poem:
There is a doper named jr8
on my nerves, his posts, they grate
I don’t know how he gets a date
a 2.1 is what his pit flames rate
oh that freaking jr8
His pots he’s scrubbed and washed, has jr8,
Singing[sup]1[/sup] poems that curse his fate
No more watching crud mutate.
“Eschew haiku[sup]2[/sup],” says jr8.
Though you’re asleep in bed now,
By once living mold that’s dead now,
You’re a better man than I am[sup]3[/sup], jr8.[sup]4[/sup]
[sub]1. In a lovely tenor voice.
2. Let’s not write haiku
Limericks have way cooler
Structure, and rhyme too
3. Which in truth is not that hard to achieve, since I’m a girl.
4. I sincerely apologise for this poem, to R. Kipling and everyone else besides.[/sub]
Dishes here
Dishes there
Dishes fucking EVERYWHERE
Dishes in the kitchen sink
Dishes on the bench that stink
Dishes in the oven, where they’re
Hiding from my wrathful glare.
Rotting dishes, hid by four
Wanting to avoid the chore.
Kids are lazy rotten slackers.
Why DID I have the little tackers???
(Signed: a harassed mother of four scrofulous teenagers)
My fingers are raw.
The front of my pants are soaked through.
But the dishes are clean.
The dishes are clean.
The dishes.
Are.
Clean.
(Someone else can put them away.)
Fuckers.
What I’d dearly love to know
Is why my mother insists on
Making things whose residue
Sticks to the dishes
Whether the food tastes good or not
Is sadly not the point, I fear
Neither is the time she spent making it
For our enjoyment in consumption
While I appreciate her effort,
She should know that leaving the dirty dishes
To congeal on the counter and stove
Is not conducive to washing them later on!
Sometimes when I’m over there, I rinse
But other times, I have to wash
All the dirty dishes, which don’t all have
“Congealed stuff from hell” on them {to be fair}
That said, I do wish that she’d
Consider my plight when I have to
Clean up and do the dishes!
My rant may not be justified, but there it is!
[sub]Excuse the lack of rhyme; I believe it’s called free verse.[/sub]
[sub]As for the poor writing, that is my responsibility alone![/sub]
I once had a sinkful of dishes,
Which festered despite my best wishes;
S.O tried to be kind
but no dish could he find
'cos the fuckers now sleep with the fishes.
In my presence you fart and you belch
I pay the bills and you welch
You’re a slob, I must note
So here is my goat
Upon whom would you please kindly felch
Shall I compare thee to a pile of shit?
Thou art more rancid and more putrid.
Harsh words do live in threads within the Pit,
And posters’ wrath hath shown you are stupid.
Sometime too hot the conversation grows,
And often is the OP very dim,
And ev’ry moderator sometimes knows,
The thread may soon have need of being trimmed.
But thy eternal goat felch shall not end,
Nor lose possession of thy filth thou post,
For thou do make ass-hattery a trend,
And in the flaming Pit thread thou do roast.
So long as morons drool and jaws are slack,
So long you suck, and int’lect you do lack.
I think that I shall never see
A joint as useful as my knee.
For when your mouth spews forth debauch
I deftly place it 'gainst your crotch;
Which stifles any further sound
As you keel o’er to the ground.
My knee is further use to me
For legging it away from thee.
My knee allows my leg to bend
For entertaining me no end.
I won’t bet you like this poem by me,
But only the Mob would break my knee.
