St. Bastard's Final Works

[Iron Sulfide]

this is a smattering of the final works of the late St. Bastard, esq.

the rest is coming along, but, it's still in limbo.

i forgo the custom of commentary, as i don't sternly feel the right (or
inclination, for that matter) to comment on his work.

that is all,
N'yo B?©, Terror Zenja, AHA of the MU [pending], et al.

Rhymes for the Tactfully Impaired
Odd Meter for Odd Folk, Composed By St. Bastard, Esq., Patron Saint of
Hotdog Water, Anti-Hero of the Fnord, The Pompous Pilot, Holy Non-
Prophet of the ORGAN puprple, et al.

Kid,Äôs Juice

A disdainful reminder
Of time gone behind her
Watching it happen
With little kid splendor
A little misshapen
And slightly less slender
Out of the playpen
And into the blender


Kipper McGee

Kipper McGee had clothes in his nose
He made all his shoes from Eskimo toes
He liked it when the frost would bite-
He said, ,ÄúIt makes their feet just right!,Äù

But then one day he made a mistake
Wrestling with an arctic snake
For as you see, they once had feet
And against all notions, hated heat

But kipper made them so they could not stand
So the snakes took his boat back to Ireland

In not too long, his distant cousin
Poops McGee would come a-running
To save his cousin from eager beavers
With saber teeth and cold meat cleavers

Vegans these beavers surely were not
With thick fur and cutlery, they ate their food hot
But both ended up in a kiln to be cooked
This was the end of them, it looked

Kipper and Poops we have not forgotten
Which one was stupid and which one was rotten








Little Johnny Walker

Little Johnny Walker
Called himself a stalker
But you wouldn,Äôt catch him peeking
Morning, Noon or Night
Instead, he stalked the Cabbage Patch
When the feeling felt just right

Standing over victims
Pulling them from chasms
But that was just an exercise
To get him in the mood
To track down packs of celery
And put them in his food

,ÄúThis next part is quite vulgar,,Äù
The narrator had told her-
A little girl reading
All of Johnny's misadventure.

,ÄúIt,Äôs also pretty gruesome,
You just might even puke some,Ķ,Äù
But it just was not enough
For her to let him be a censor.

Little Johnny Walker
Was quite the cock knocker
He had a spoon in one hand,
Peanut butter in the other
And he STABBED that stalk of celery
And then he stabbed its mother

And its sister and its brother
And its father and its daughter

And then he ate them all






Molly Malloy


Molly Malloy liked to play with her toys
But she wasn,Äôt quite like other girls and boys
She didn,Äôt have dolls or trains or a bike
She didn,Äôt get presents on a cold Christmas night
But the trouble was theirs, she thought in her heart
For her toys were much better than that old fart,Äôs

Molly Malloy was a Magdalene girl
With sultry pink lips and a head of red curls
She had Jezebel yearnings and Isabel burnings
But her favorite toys were a saw and a gurney

Second to those, she loved her toy poodle
Once it was living, but now stuffed with noodles
Which brings me to her favorite dish
Which doubled as a dead toy fish
A potent odor for one to be sure-
She found that one in a pile of manure

But all the boys and girls
That knew Miss Molly Malloy
Wouldn,Äôt let her play with them
And they all called her ,Äúkill-joy,Äù
So she hacked them all to pieces
And sewed them back together
A doll set for future nieces
Made of ivory and leather.

The Clandestine Trials of Good Boy

There was a boy that tried too hard
And everything was spent
Then at the end of a dull, hard day
He,Äôd fall asleep in his old pop tent
The back yard was a jungle
Of imaginary proportions
Full of savage animals
That left more animals orphans

He tried to talk some sense into them
But they rather would have his head
And his heart on a platter of stone
And his liver, though full of lead
For reason was as foreign to them
As an oodlescoop is for us
So the little boy pulled out his toys
As the vermiscious made a fuss

He set them out in a nice, neat pattern
The orphans looked in awe
At all the splendors of the world
The mean ones just guffawed
As the orphans set to play
With this wondrous, new array
The means ones set to mocking them
(The toys were pretty gay)

But the little boy had had enough
So he pulled one last thing out
From his old pop tent, it was something bent
Something short and stout
And he bludgeoned all the meanies
Into a broken, bloody pulp
The orphans ran, except for one
(Who could only help but ,ÄúGulp!,Äù)

So the boy held out his hand
And explained it to the tyke
He was now as gentle as a dove
Though just turned from a bull dyke
He scooped up the little one
And took him to his tent
Later that night, it was bulldozed
And laid over with cement


[/end transmission]

in the tradition, though i plan to eventually publish his collective works, the official copyright status of these (and all his works) are (K) Copywrong, and free for use/alteration/recycling/toiletpaper/attacking the
memory of saint bastard..

now get the fuck off my lawn.