"Stop Talking About Your Cervix, Mrs. Worthington!"

Oh, Mrs. Worthington,
I do enjoy your company,
you are a delight to behold,
your wisdom is exceeded only
by your charm and grace,
and you wear the most enchanting frocks.
However,
there is something I must mention,
a habit in which you engage,
that turns my guests away from their scones,
causes the Duke to scowl,
and has you the talk of Fleet Street.
You see, Mrs. Worthington,
though it pains me to convey,
I daresay you address your cervix
more often than is necessary,
and at a word,
in the most public of places.
I profess,
that Lord Coddington cares not
of how cylindrical it may be,
Count Felbrigg feigns interest
at the consistency of its mucus,
and Lady Huddleston,
despite being of similar age,
wishes not to discuss upsuck theory.
Having declared this,
I meant not to offend,
or to belittle your feminist notions,
but as a gentleman to a lady,
I must say:
"Stop talking about your cervix, Mrs. Worthington!"

"Menstrual Mileage"

Expect ye an ocean, prepare for a flood,
I've gallons and GALLONS of period blood!
Extracted by siphon from menstruating bud,
consistency sim'lar to bubbling mud.

I mix it with vodka, i spread it on toast,
I use it as glaze while I'm cooking a roast,
I serve it at parties when playing the host,
its taste is divine as the Holiest Ghost!

My menstrual supplier is quite a fair catch,
with pubic shenanigans grand and unmatch'd
whene'er she's prompted to open the hatch,
elixer spews forth from her gurgling snatch!

And lest ye be wary of vaginal ooze,
or gynecological greases transfused,
remember its functions beyond how its used....
now grab a vagina and spread the good news!

"Childbirth"

The joy of childbirth,
the beauty of babies,
the innocence of the newborn.
Spurting out of sweaty, gaping vaginas like machine gun bullets,
come forth wretched abominations,
screaming and writhing in confusion and stupidity.
They chew on your swollen, lactating breasts,
sucking your tainted milk,
vomiting acid and blood.
Maternal instincts accentuate your inexplicable link with this THING,
your little bundle of joy,
for whom you would disembowel your best friend,
and tear the arms off of another's child.
Insolent Hellspawn,
stealing your sleep and sanity,
ensuring the death of catharsis,
commencing eternal depression.
When the world ends,
your irradiated offspring,
will shriek as the soft, milky flesh is torn from its face,
and you will scream.

"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!