"Taxidermy Tim"

Taxidermy Tim,
tastefully tearing tendons,
tempered Thompson's tongue.

"T'was The Week After Doomsday" (Parody)

T'was the week after doomsday, when all through the land,
not a creature was living, they'd all turned to sand,
the humans were hung from the bridges with snares,
a sign that the cannibals soon would be there.

The children were scared, hiding under their beds,
while visions of savagery danced through their heads,
and papa with his hacksaw, and I with my knife,
had devoured the brains of our dead neighbour's wife.

When up in the sky arose such an explosion:
a hydrogen bomb causing widespread corrosion,
away from the bunker I flew like a flash,
deciding to risk radiation and rash.

The moon on the breast of the fallout and dust,
gave the lustre of doomsday upon the earth's crust,
when, what to my curious eyes should emerge,
but a mutated man with a pestilent scourge!

With a torrent of foam from his mouth to his knees,
I knew in a moment he must be diseased,
I stabbed him to death as he fell with a thud,
then screamed in an orgy of organs and blood:

"Out, liver! out, kidneys! Out bladder and gall!
Out heart and intestines, the large and the small!
To the top of the spine as to sever the head!
Now fade away! Fade away! Fade away dead!"

As with flesh that before the great blasts decomposed,
when it meets with a skeleton scavenged by crows,
so up in the air did this man's organs fly,
with his corpse emptied out, and no life in his eyes.

And then, in an instant, I heard o'er the hill,
a small band of travelers ripe for the kill,
as I redrew my knife and admired their meat,
their commander was carefully scouring the street.

He was covered with boils, from his head to his toes,
and the clothes that he wore were a dead C.E.O.'s,
a bundle of rations were flung o'er his back,
and he looked like he'd once overseen Freddie Mac.

My mouth, how it watered, my stomach, how famished,
I wanted to turn this man into a sandwich,
with the drool on my chin dripping down to the soil,
my maniacal bloodlust had peaked at a boil.

The butt of my knife I held tight in my teeth,
as I swiftly charged after the trav'lers beneath,
the looks on their faces were scared and perplexed,
when I jumped on their leader and went for his neck.

He was gamy and firm, a right tasty old chap,
and I laughed as I ate him, despite being trapped,
his party encircled me, gathering round,
then beaten unconscious, I fell to the ground...

I spoke not a word as I woke in a daze,
tied up on a spit and encrusted with glaze,
when one of the travelers started a fire,
I knew my existence was soon to expire.

I sang to my slay in delirious pitches,
for my ravenous captors were real sons 'o bitches,
then proclaimed as I burned with my last dying breath:
"MERRY DOOMSDAY TO ALL, AND TO ALL A BLACK DEATH!"

"Luggage To Stuff"

Bergruntha, come quickly! Jerome, be advised!
Theres LUGGAGE TO STUFF in the witness's eyes!
His dilated pupils are quite over-sized,
so fetch me a suitcase and let's improvise!

His eyelids are open, his irises green,
his carry-on maxed out the weighing machine!
His punishment needs to be publicly seen,
we'll lube up his bags with a case of visine!

Bergruntha, the bonesaw! Jerome, the scotch tape!
This witness's eyeballs are driving me ape!
His face will soon take on a curious shape...
but that's what you get when you try to escape!

"So, what did he see?" you may question surprised,
"to warrant a bag being stuffed in his eyes?"
The answer, my friend, is as easy as pie:
He witnessed yours truly admiring his thighs.

If he had not seen me, if he had not cared,
he wouldn't be screaming and tied to a chair,
but something annoyed me, the way that he stared,
he thought I was gay...and it's not true, I swear!

Jerome and Bergruntha, for now and herein,
will help me absolve this young witness's sin,
for when we are through, he'll be full of chagrin,
and bags won't be under his eyes, they'll be in...

"Stenography Bus"

Distill your Saliva! Channel your lust!
Children, make way for Stenography Bus!
She liquefies infants to bottle their musk,
then siphons their blood into Styrofoam cups!

"That Calorpian Demon!"

I'll tell you about a Calorpian Demon,
to shock you in sheer disbelief,
his horns were a' curly,
his muscles a' burly,
he lived in a barrier reef!

Inside of the reef, that Calorpian Demon,
would munch on his victims' souls,
he'd wait til' they clustered,
then smear them with mustard,
and stockpile their remnants in bowls!

When leaving the reef for a night at the office,
that Demon would stroll through the park,
he'd stalk every lady,
devour every baby,
but get to the office by dark!

At work, this specific Calorpian Demon,
was famed for his broad expertise,
his figures for killin'
were matched by his skill in
dismembering children with ease!

By dawn the next morn', that Calorpian Demon,
would punch out from work for the night,
he'd eat his assistant,
to keep self-sufficient,
then dance on her burial site!

When back at the reef, that Calorpian Demon,
would kick up his feet and relax,
he'd snack on a fetus,
then drink margaritas,
and ponder his demon-ly acts!

*Calorpia is a fictitious nation fraught with perils both demonic and economic. Additionally, the position of "Personal Assistant to That Calorpian Demon" has an extremely high turnover rate.

"Cheevers The Pulp Salesman"

Should Cheevers The Pulp Salesman knock at your door,
give welcome with kindness, develop rapport,
for should you give Cheevers a reason for war,
he'll disrobe your skin to a musical score.

He'll flirt with your nostrils, he'll dance with your tongue,
he'll sip chardonnay while he sweet-talks your lungs,
he'll BOAST to your spleen 'bout the length that he's hung,
for courting your innards makes Cheevers feel young.

"But how 'bout his PULP?" you may wonder perplexed...
Have patience, you scoundrel, I'm getting there next!
Your rude interruption has made me quite vexed,
when this tale is over, I'll beat you do death!

See, PULP-WISE, Ol' Cheevers is stocked to the brim,
for hijacking PULP from his Siamese Twin
allows him to sell at a dollar per bin...
his quarterly profits are stashed in Berlin!

SO...

Should Cheevers The Pulp Salesman come to your home,
just purchase his pulp, and he'll leave you alone,
denying him business enrages his BONES,
but helps him make love to your retinal cones!

*Narrator beats reader to death*

"Calligraphy Scallion"

Caligraphy Scallion proposed legislation
to Senators grand and elite:
"I'm leery of sustenance in this great nation...
let's make it illegal to eat!"

The Senate, intrigued by his new-age proposal,
decided to hear out the bill,
though grassroots support would be stiff and immobile,
he'd seen the law work in Brazil.

"See, calories never did NOTHIN' for NO ONE!"
he stated whilst slamming his fist,
"I'd rather be shot by a poisonous blow gun
than munch on a satchel of chips!"

"Unless I'm mistaken," one Senator stated,
"Don't people need food to survive?"
"Of COURSE not, Caligraphy Scallion debated,
it's starving that keeps you alive!"

The Senate, compelled by his rational pleading,
soon signed the young bill into law,
aware that the subsequent legal proceeding,
would draw a collective "Hurrah!"

Caligraphy Scallion concluded the session,
the Senate recessed until Spring,
when scientists championed food repossession,
he'd know that he'd done the right thing.