Tired. So very tired.
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February 12, 2004       |       Today's Terror Mood Ring: crippling apathy.       |       Happy Birthday, Judy Blume!

Crockpot.

WRITERS-ON-WRITING MONTH:
"Poets on Poetry" Dep't:

VALENTINE AFFAIRS OF THE FAMOUS
AS REVEALED BY THEIR LOVE SONNETS

BY
GEORGE MOTISHER



Saddam Hussein & Sandra Day O'Connor

S.H. to S.D.O.:

When first I saw you in your robe of black,
I knew then I had seen my bunker bust,
Without you, through my soul blows desert dust,
I knew I couldnít fight sweet loveís attack.
Some statues to you ó I will build a stack!
A testament to unveiled womanís lust,
Iíll do whateíer our courtship deems is just,
And even let you stab my doubleís back.

Have evil cards been dealt inside my brain?
Or maybe Iíve just got a Sandy heart,
From all this arid, tasteless, beige terrain.
This Sunni day Iíll make a brand new start,
Iíll live with spiders, ticks, and even Kurds,
Who needs Allahís sweet Virgins; Iíve your words!

S.D.O. to S.H.:

My little Hussy, you are so divine,
My little pussy loves your every stroke,
It feels like spiders tickling when you poke,
I love your hidey hole, and you love mine!
Donít ever let those Bush hogs call you ďswine,Ē
You are not evil, nor are you a joke
Because your bunkers all went up in smoke,
And Haliburton grabbed your bottom line.

That bottom they canít hold, itís oh-so-tight!
And squeezing it is my right, itís not theirs.
Itís just my constitution, made to fight
For everything for which a woman cares.
Just give your foes the gas; itís oil I hunt.
Weíll slip and slide with it, and moan and grunt.


Sylvester Stallone & Meryl Streep

S.S. to M.S.:

Yo, Streep! I like your acting, I say, Yo!
I like your foreign accents. I canít do
Them, But I surely can say Yo to you,
Your acting is so good, itís just like, Yo!
Iím not a man of many words, I know,
Or many roles for what thatís worth; ítis true,
But I got biceps, pecs, tight tush, and Whew!
Yes! So do you. I mean your tush, itís Yo!

So Streep! Yo, Yo, and Yo some more, and Yo,
Those accents and that tush, and acting, Yo!
Oh, let me shoot my Uzi, watch it spurt;
Iíll blow up bad guys; you Iíll never hurt.
And then Iíll say to you not Yo, but, Yoa!
And you can be my dear Meryl Balboa!

M.S. to S.S.:

Oh sweet my dearest, youíre so buff and Sly,
You surely punch my lights out when we hump,
You are my choice, (that Sophieís just a frump),
Those Rockies in your shorts will make me cry!
I love the way your enemies all die.
Iíll writhe upon your ammunition dump,
Weíll feel exploding ordnance as you pump,
Weíll shoot together, then weíll idly lie.

They say that you canít act, itís only grunts.
I grunt, too. (I do all my acting stunts).
Those Eberts donít know accents from first base,
I think we need to get them off our case:
With AK-47s we can blast,
Then, glove in glove, our love will Ever last!


Laura Bush & Kim Jong Il

K.J.I. to L.B.:

The U.N. must be fooled, your hubby, too,
(How did you get tied up with such a clod?)
Heís just a bogus sheriff with no bod,
And rather short on hair (my humble view).
In terrorism he has not a clue,
He fears Iíll bait him with a fission rod,
When all Iíll really do is shoot my wad
And radiate my glory into you!

Will U.N. nations ask him to desist,
Or has he placed his rod in where it hurts?
Big weapon systems he just canít resist,
Whereas my weapons are just little squirts.
He thinks heís powerful and really tall,
Though he is but a cuckold, that is all!

L.B. to K.J.I.:

Kimmy, Kimmy, Kim; or is it Jong?
It makes me Il to not know which nameís first,
But I will learn for you, or Iíll just burst,
I love you dearest, whether right or wrong.
They say youíre short, but I know you are long,
And also big around, like German wurst,
And all those Occidentals should be cursed
And my George, too, for sanctions way too strong.

Oh, let them laugh and joke about your hair:
ďWithout that hair, heís barely even there.Ē
What ever can George know of those swift strands,
His sensitivityís just in his glands,
And though not French, itís really plain to see,
Those locks of yours can surely tickle me!


Arnold Schwarzenegger & Hillary Clinton

A.S. to H.C.:

Ah, Jah, Maria iss a pain to see,
Those sunken cheeks like Jackoís, vhat a sight!
And, Jah, that voice that quacks all through the night,
On CBS, or iss it NBC?
I vant, I need, to grasp someone and flee,
And youífe the bottom shaped exactly right,
A trifle flabby, maybe; thatís alright,
One cannot live on diets all fat-free!

And you, a Senator, Jah, itís so grand,
With me now Governor weíll make a stand,
Your Bill iss just a cigar wielding fool
Who doesnít have control of his small tool.
But even if you canít become my vife,
Pleasse help me pump my iron all my life!

H.C. to A.S.:

My Arnold, you are such a joy to me,
While doing pushups over top my breast,
And groping me with such an earnest zest.
A one-man health plan, and so sweetly free!
In California, on that calming sea,
Or in New York, where all my stock is blessed,
I love to lie with you, and be caressed,
And when you groan, I moan in ecstasy.

But what of all those groupies that you squeeze?
Iíd make you stop; but who cares, what the hell!
Bill had a bimbo village on its knees,
But spun things so the press wonít ask, or tell.
My running with you, though, will hit a snag
Unless you terminate that Shriver hag!


Pope John Paul II & Anna Nicole Smith

P.J.P. to A.N.S.:

I confess, sweet Nun, you bring back spring!
You have an ever overrunning cup,
And though I can no longer get it up,
(An agŤd cross I bear! This useless thing!)
Iíll kiss your coozie, still. Youíll kiss my ring,
And pamper me like Iím your favorite pup.
Our last encounter will be quite a sup,
Weíll eat, drink wine, then genuflect and sing.

And when Iím dead I want to help you cope,
Those Bishop pricks be damned! Iíll still be Pope
Until those Cardínals blow out all their smoke.
Iíll spread some Papal Bull, and thatís no joke,
Declaring you Popette, and Virgin, too!
That Mass of jealous fools can cry, Boo Hoo!

A.N.S. to P.J.P.:

I long to be your Mary Magdalene,
Or Virgin Mary might be better yet
Considering youíre broken bone wonít set,
And I canít kiss you with those clergymen
All lurking íround our little Vatican.
I know you long to hug, and want to pet
Those Heavínly places, but you then forget.
Just reassure and bless me now and then.

It must be Purgatory for you, Sweet,
To know there can be no small pattíring feet,
But youíve Godís children, you must watch them well
And see that none of them will go to Hell.
Iíll simply hang with you ítil you expireó
No matter that your candleís lost its fire.











Write to Y.P.R. Write for Y.P.R. Right on, Y.P.R.

Crockpot.


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