My anus has haemorrhaged and oh what a pity
I've lost two pints of blood and your cock is smellin' shitty
You've got this bowel-thumpin' down to a fine art
Push it in, pull it out, fuck me 'til I fart.

Slippy slippy slippy slippy slippy slippy slip
Pump me like a Super Soaker™ with your massive bulbous tip
Feed me generous lengths of your clotted corned-beef
Pump it up, mash my guts, fuck me 'til I queef.

Form a suction cup with your stinking, oily end
Press it against my gaping ring and let our milks blend
Pull it out, lick it up and let me hear those slurps
Fist my floppy meatsack until the fucker burps.

Fill my witch's cauldron with your chunky chicken soup
Get a straightened coat-hanger and fish out the lumps of poop
Kiss the back of my neck as you tear my hole apart
Come back again this time tomorrow and fuck me 'til I fart.

© Paddy "Do You Smell Ham?" McCockery 2010.

I was inspired to write this after I spent an hour-and-a-half on my bathroom floor trying to ease a banana into my rectum without it bursting (the banana, that is). No matter how slick with spit or how far from being ripe the fruit is I can never quite manage to get it up there, and I'm far too modest and decent to actually buy a dildo. I guess I should be proud of the fact that I have a tight virgin hole, but pride doesn't make my cock squirt buttermilk, leaving me drooling and twitching like a freshly-tasered cerebral palsy sufferer.

Thanks for reading. If you have an erection/wet twat by the end, email me; we have much to discuss.

There's a minute of my life I won't get back. Paddy, write something decent! If you can write this you can write something good! Just don't write with the banana again.

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All great art is subversive at first - I'm just paving my way to Geniusville. When I arrive there I'll celebrate with a nice banana smoothie. That reminds me, I need to buy a funnel.

There's a funnel on the gas can for the tractor. Knock yerself out.

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No, Paddy, don't listen to Bobbi! This is gold. Not even knowing it was you, as soon as I saw the title I knew it had to be awesome, and it was.

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That's just cuz you're cruisin' for a butt buddy!

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I liked the trade mark symbol. It made me lol.


Also, I was poppin half wood throughout most of the poem, but once I read the line, "Get a straightened coat-hanger and fish out the lumps of poop," I had a full on stiffy carlson.


Well written prose.

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I`d really like to read some serious stuff by you Pad. And no, not serious stuff about your sexual irish traditions like the one above

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you always know just what to say to make my foamy sea-monkey brine clot like so much curdled, feta cheese.

HAHAHAHA!! You guyses make my belly happy.

This is about as close to genius as an Irishman can be expected to come. No pun intended, of course.

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Paddy you are one hell of a character dude, this thread title had me cracking up

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Oh my god, there are so many connections being made right now. I recently found these letters, written by James Joyce to his wife:

"At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole."

"It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also. "

I'm not joking.

If Paddy is writting poetry this deep that hasn't even been inspired by a lover, who knows what he could write if here were? And what is he writing on the side that isn't about farting? Oh my god.. PADDY IS IRISH, TOO! Please write more, for the love of God, write more Mr. Incarnation of Joyce, the public needs more!

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That Joyce cunt has been stealing my material for years! Those letters were originally sent by me to Chris' mama.

Poetry isn't something I've ever been interested in, but if I ever find a woman who lets me send her letters like these I'll be sure to post 'em along with a snapshot of Satan (GLORIOUS EXALTED SATAN) having some lovely ice-cream whilst sitting in an ice-bath next to a snowman, with Santa (GLORIOUS EXALTED SANTA) standing nearby molesting one of his midget sweatshop workers from the North Pole and them both holding a sign saying "fuck me, this is COLD, son!".

LOLLlL!1

PREEMPTIVE STRIKE, BITCHES!

Paddy,I'm disappointed. You said "from the North Pole" instead of "with the" or "with his."

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You're disappointed that I didn't make some twisted comment about Santa sliding his massive gnarled pole in and out of a midget's anus, stretching and tearing it with every cold, passionless thrust, withdrawing suddenly and violently allowing loops of bowel to spill out in its wake like a trembling dog shitting overcooked spaghetti, with gushing arcs of bile and blood lapping up around Santa's fat pendulous gut as he slowly slides his clenched fist along the shaft of his softening cock, gradually easing the migrant faecal milk out of the pockmarked, pale-blue, bulbous apple of his member, and then proceeding to pat the midget's sweat-drenched forehead with it so as to literally thump out any renaming pleasure clinging to its nerve endings? You've been spending WAY too much time here, woman.