Take zinc for your dink.
I think. In pill form or drink.
Live life on the brink.

Cuntabulated.
For those busy prostitutes.
Vaginal spread sheets.

Zink

Think pink mink dink stink?
Pink dink slink. Pink stink dink. think.
Slink mink. Stink mink fink

Think pink dink stink sink.
Slink mink fink rink brink ink wink.
Sync drink kink link blink.

This life will kill us
It seems like a waste of time
But just wait it out

you just laugh at me
When I show you my small dink
And then we both cry

extra small penis
Trying not to get noticed
jerkin the gherkins

https://www.artsy.net/article/artsy-editorial-ancient-greek-sculptures-small-penises

Statue of David
Ever notice his small dink?
X husband was his twin

without the cuss words,
or mention of genitals,
it's not a poem.

That was kinda fun
Really decent poetry
You can write one too

Please submit poems
One poem a day, at least
Recite them out loud
Kuntfart Kuntfart Kunt!!

Please read my poem
I worked on it all day long
Get it just right, man

Didn't use cuss words
Or mention genitalia
Needs an extra line
G Rated Poem

Zip zip zip zip zip
Zip zip zip zip zip zip zip
Dink caught in fly

Rock rock rock crack smush
Rock smush rock smush rock smush smush
Sticky werthers gramps?

Jehova's Witness
Keeps them away from your door
Protection Program

Your smile..like the sun
Cheerful, long yellow teeth
I think I'm in love

Soggy manure life
Like a rainy day all day
If the rain wuz poop

Have no ha'penny?
Then let's just skin you alive
Oh, and God bless you.

your smile send shock waves
that i forget i have lungs
and my legs have knees

The children are taught to sing "Merry Christmas" with their hands held out begging for money and it never changes until they die.

"When I grow up I
want to be a sacrifice
to volcano gods."

You might not like filth.
That's where life begins and ends.
Don't blame me, blame God.

Every fart, turd,
and bodily excretion
is a prayer of thanks.

Can you reduce it,
Every last lyric impulse,
To sex filth vomit?

I aim to not aim.
It's wise to stand far from me
at the urinal.

With six extra cocks
his junk looked like a bag pipe.
Big hit at gay bars.

The missing bagpipes
Last spotted in Edinburgh
Look under his kilt

I aim to confuse
What is my chosen weapon? My shitty haikus

I would like a Hell.
Torture for all of my sins.
And then I could sleep.

It would be peaceful.
As long as my wife's not there.
It will be okay.

Well, you could have flushed
That's not very neighbourly
Ain't a art museum

bad haiku check-in:
farts, shit-stains, and suchlike filth
time to leave again

I have a question
Um, do farts have syllables
Can u fart haiku?

Can u cut the cheese?
Lay a coil or drop a stew?
Make smelly haiku?

Important Message
Near Far wherever you Are
My fart must go on

There is no Hell place
So don't sweat the small stuff, dude
Just play with yourself

Do you mean Dante?
He was obsessed with Satan.
Whatever sells, eh?

I should read his work.
Would be good to pass the time.
As I wait for hell.

A book I enjoyed.
Satan: His Psychotherapy and Cure
by The Unfortunate Dr. Kassler, J.S.P.S.

When in third grade,
I'd shit in other kids' pants.
Then make them wear it.

If the penis dies,
but the testicles live on,
what's the point of that?

Elvis had a twin
He wasn't an orange dork
With a bunghole mouth

One hand in pocket
Other one is...Wait, I'm nude!
That ain't a pocket

Weird World of Haiku
Sentenced to hard labor here
Could use a Snickers

I remember you
Used to be the janitor
I'm a poet now

I always enjoyed coming up behind other kids at the urinal and grabbing them and moving them around, making them piss all over the place. Janitors loved me, I'm sure.

Then in the fourth grade
Heather had a crush on Vic
She peed on his shoe

I was in third grade
Kid next to me shit his pants
Turned them inside out

Bend all the way down
Now push out with your rectum
Now clean up the shit

When he falls asleep
I order pizza and wings
On his credit card

The brain is dying.
Not from lack of oxygen,
from too much haiku.

What is poetry?
Is it the sound of my fart?
Or is it the smell?

No Poets Allowed
No Poets Allowed, I said.
No Poets Allowed

Pubic Hair Salon
Genital tumbleweeds roll
"We do coiffs and queefs"