Tuesday, March 29, 2016

The Prize-Winning Poetry of Percival P. Pederast

The Fart

Pop, squeak, toot,

Stinky little flute.

The wind breaks from my anus,

Sending forth foul smells

That delight your nosehairs.

How is it that we cannot enjoy

The simple pleasures God hath given?

A man farts in the face of another man;

The victim takes it in, inhaling in one great gasp

The methane refuse of his lover.

If you know another way to love,

Please tell me.


You have no idea what it is like,

To take something that you have fattened

For eons; A creature malevolent and reeking

Of ammonia, a simple beast unfit

To walk upon its four legs any longer;

You have not an inkling what it is like

To sacrifice such a monster,

To drink its blood and eats its flesh

Like the Christians do.

Hail Satan! I hath devoured Lucifier,

Greatest of all felines.

He tasted like stinky feet

and sea-bound leather.

To Critics

In short: you have no humor.

You do not perceive the greatness that moves before you,

A colossus that walks with long shaggy legs,

Its taint visible for all to see,

Resembling a giant hairy spider,

The type you might see on the discovery channel.

Let me shout it for all the world to hear:

Boy-love is natural,

It is good,


And salutary.

All the same,

You have nothing on me.

Get that burrito

Outta my face.  

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