Eat My Shit Socrates

Sometimes, I write slightly shitty poems.

Once there lived a precarious little boy,
Who unfortunately suffered from a disorder,
It brought him very little joy,
Oh, before anything his mum is a hoarder.

The boy's name was Harry,
With three best friends at his core,
One of them is a full on tranny,
One is a faggot, the third's a whore.

Harry loves to laugh at stupidity,
His snarky mouth always rattling away,
It can make a prude go giddy,
And a Catholic nun go cray-cray.

His tranny friend is called Melanie,
And three years ago he was called Melvin,
Armed with a man made pussy,
Ready for show by the seventh gin.

The faggot is this hottie called Steve,
Who bleaches his anus for nothing but pleasure,
A flaming Adam without his Eve,
His bank account a motherfucking treasure.

And so the whore is called Star,
Who's an owner of a legendary pair of tits,
And changes men like she changes her bra,
Body have had no rest, especially her clits.

Have we talked about Harry's mother,
Who collects fridge magnets from fifteen years ago,
In total denial that she's a hoarder,
And OCD too let us not forego.

A younger brother Harold is his name,
Not that neurotic, frequents the gym,
The only sane one and nobody to blame,
A real feat considering the whole family is grim.

Harry is hopelessly obsessed with Bollywood,
He watches it night and day,
It's his other sustenance besides real food,
A real frenzied fanatic now if you may.

He also writes on his fabulous blog,
And it's aptly called A Son Of A Peach,
Narrow minded people may be in shock,
Cause the blog has morals in the ditch.

So lest you want to live and be humorless,
With nose high up and on your moral horse,
Harry tells me to inform you first,
He doesn't give a flying fuck and that too without remorse.

Thank you bitches for reading. Much love.