In days of yore, chivalrous young men wrote and recited Odes; i.e., lovely poems dedicated to their ladies faire (that's medieval for "fair", which is really old-school for "pretty").This they did to:
1) expound on their love's greatest qualities and
2) show their undying, single-minded, and often obsessive devotion towards them, mostly due to the stuff outlined in #1.
Well, just by chance I happened to find myself in the Poetry Corner this week. Truth be told, it was the police who happened to find me there--a mere 36 hours after I was declared missing. In any event, I decided to take advantage of the situation and write an Ode of my own.
This I did to:
1) expound on my love's greatest qualities...etc., etc. and
2) show once and for all why this tradition needed to die a very long time ago.
Ann Coulter Is My Kind Of Wench
With legs like 2 twigs
And jaws like a wrench,
Stands Ann Coulter,
My kind of wench.
When conserves are in power—
Nay, in command,
She slaps at poor liberals
With the back of her hand.
Ann bites off their heads
And eats them for lunch
When asked, “Have another?”
She says, “Yes, thanks a bunch”.
And then sharpens her shoe
And hikes up her gown
And kicks at poor liberal,
But only when down.
For when libs are in power—
Under cover of night,
Ann crawls under a rock
And remains out-of-sight.
But if you follow the slime
And you follow the stench
You’ll find Ann Coulter,
My kind of wench.
Forsooth! My flaxen vixen.
