The mutha fuckin epic poem bake-off!

sorabji.com: Words: The mutha fuckin epic poem bake-off!
THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016).
By Antigone on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 12:51 am:

    Each past should be a stanza or line in the mutha fuckin epic poem bake-off.

    Starting with:

    Fuck thou, thee sheep's ass!

By Cat on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 01:50 am:

    Thou art uglier than a buzzard's tit

By Trace on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 01:59 am:

    Thou art a buzzard's tit

By TBone on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 02:15 am:

    Whilst on foul winds you float

By Pez on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 03:53 am:

    And your mouth tastes of soap

By J on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 12:13 pm:

    Thou was never born,a buzzard shit on a rock and the sun hatched you.

By Isolde on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 01:03 pm:

    Whenst thou hatched, the sun blanched at thine ugliness.

By Antigone on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 02:17 pm:

    And the rock cried out, "Fucketh! What's that smell?"

By Spider on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 02:33 pm:

    "Naught but this reviled eater of broken meats," spake the dung beetle.

By Isolde on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 07:21 pm:

    the dung beetle wast a noble individual.

By Cat on Saturday, August 19, 2000 - 07:45 pm:

    Unlike tho whost countenance has been shat on by fattened maggots

By Isolde on Sunday, August 20, 2000 - 01:34 am:

    The dungbeetle was horrified to look at thee, and set off on a journey.

By TBone on Sunday, August 20, 2000 - 04:26 am:

    He was on a quest to find the truth of life.

By N.b. on Sunday, August 20, 2000 - 10:14 am:

    And the Firth of Forth, and the quaff of Ruth, and the fork of knife.

By Antigone on Sunday, August 20, 2000 - 02:43 pm:

    And the loves labors lost, and the perfect vermouth, and for freedom from strife.

By Spider on Sunday, August 20, 2000 - 03:03 pm:

    I'faith, Sir Dung of Beetle beheld yon sanguinary mountains and crept toward them forthwith, post-haste, ipso facto, compos mentis. Selah.

By Jay on Monday, August 21, 2000 - 08:58 am:

    Alas, the crest of yon mountain peak made, Sir Dung of Beetle lays to rest. He moans and groans and delivers a turd and with his dingleberries makes his nest.

By dbone on Monday, August 21, 2000 - 11:18 am:

    for it was a mountain of shit, and yon Sir Dung didst find his peace - compost mentis

By Pez in literature on Monday, August 21, 2000 - 12:28 pm:

    his peace was pure, but one thing he did lack
    he needed a maiden, so off he did clack

By J on Monday, August 21, 2000 - 12:38 pm:

    He got him a maiden,got her into his sack,things got ugly when she mentioned the clap.

By Isolde on Monday, August 21, 2000 - 08:13 pm:

    They raced to the clinic, desparate for a physic...

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