Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 19: A Treat For Your Feet!

Hey y'all! It sure has been a while. Here's a little poem I made up about five seconds ago for my dear friend AmberLEE. I like it, and it really rings true.


A Gift for AmberLEE

Don't be scared dear AmberLEE,
Far too long now you've known me.
You of all should know I'm not stingy.
I don't hold back; I give freely.
I make no excpetions on land or sea,
Black/white: I share with everybody.
A special gift not grown on trees,
a gift I've had since puberty:
STD's!!!!!!!! Come get three!!!!!!!!!!!!!


For reals though. Contact me. I'll hook you up.
Love,
Papa

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 18: Holster Your Ambition

Many moons ago I wrote a poem and sent it to a select few via e-mail. The poem was about the sorrow felt at parting with a loved one. Thanks to modern technology and Matthew Hanks' ability to save that e-mail, I now get to share it with all of you in this my public forum. The loved one I parted with (and of whom speaketh this poem) was the pair of Havana Joe black leather shoes my Grandmother purchased for me before I left on my mission. I loved those shoes, for they served me extremely well almost the entire duration of my mission. They were made in Spain.


Spanish Shoe

I saw you Spanish shoe,
you were black not blue.
I put you on my foot and said,
"I´ll wear you as I sleep in bed!
I´ll never take you off again!
You are my very new best friend."
You smelled so leathery and fresh,
then you smelled like my foot flesh.
You served me well 2 years less month
and now the pain inside I grunth,
"OOOOOHHH wicked asphalt! Why break my heart?
Why must you tear my shoe apart?"
What once was new, my Spanish shoe,
is now big black mushy Spanish poo.
Never again will I let myself love.
For my tender heart has had enough.
All I can do is sit and cry,
as I bid my Spanish shoe goodbye...


That's the truth. Well, see you all next week when we do this thing again.
Love,
Papa

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 17: Harriet Tubman Gets Crunk

Ah yes... The time doth pass so fast my friends. Twas what seems like yesteryear when last we met on the glorious fields of poetic embattlement, to drive back the evil forces of racism and bigotry through these sweetly enchanted utterings. I have good reason for my absence (I was defending the honor, safety, and virtue of both young women and the elderly), but let us not dwell on that. The Great Reunion--which has been prophesied of since the beginning--has begun to occur. Most key figures have returned; lack us only one. Today's poem will center on the unfolding of these events:


The Great Reunion Vol. 1: Flowellenation

The mist of times, that once clouded eyes
Yet swift it is now unfolding...
Relentless haze, like fires ablaze
Disbursement hath done her dancing...
BOOM cracks the thunder, the world split asunder
New light begins to break forth...
Vague shapes then appear, with magic for the ears
Musical Viking Gods descending from the North.

Tis 'The Return of the Oh So Flowells'
Who on Earth can withstand their yell?
The Germans perhaps, with their pointy tipped hats
The truth only time will tell.
It's 'The Return of the Oh So Flowells'
Their fame doth the annals of history swell
Their funk made the Underground Railroad get crunk
Got 'em shakin' on the Oregon Trail.


That is all for this week. Vol. 1 is a short yet poignant reminder of the inescapable destiny that must be fulfilled. The question each of us should be asking ourselves is: What role am I playing in the fulfillment of that destiny? You're either for us... or you're against us...
Flowells for life...

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Quickie: Push Play Puts Prince Out of a Job

Four years. Not many people really appreciate just how long a time that is. I bet you don't. I however do. That is how long it has been since I have seen Burke Skidmore. He left for his mission right before I got home from mine.
Four years changes a lot of things. I can now grow facial hair (it is a delicious shade of dark red), I now am an avid fan of hygiene, I'm officially not gay (I have well-documented proof of that), and most of all I am now fat. There is a lot of trepidation in me as my mind whirls with the countless possibilities of what he will say and think at that moment of eye-feastation when reunited we are. Will he hate me? Will he say, "No John. A lot has changed and I now hate fat people." Will he throw things at me for having betrayed his trust by now liking girls (for the record I always liked 'em... they're downright delightful, and oh so perrty. It just wasn't common knowledge or provable in a court of law)? Will he fear my fiery face chin?
As all of these thoughts go running through my head, my heart whispers a gentle reminder to me: O.B.B.--Original Bed Buddies...


Original Bed Buddies

Man.
I'm a man.
You're a man.
We do man-things like beat stuff up and burn it.
Men.
Us men.
We're both men.
We wear man-clothes that accentuate our extreme manitudes: NOT BONNETS.
Time has passed, and the man-hourglass has no sand.
Frolic. We'll surely frolic. Run very man-like through fields hand-in-hand.
Sing. Karaoke in man-scary places with men with hairy faces
Men with big boots and fur wraps of animals they've killed with their own teeth.
Are we men: the least of these? Ho please.
They respect us down on both knees.
Men.
We're men.


Welcome home Burke. You have been missed. Don't expect those sentiments to last very long, though. Soon enough you'll be just as much of a hiss and a by-word as the rest of us.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 16: Let Loose the Beeves

Friends and mortal enemies, it has been far too long since last we met. I took an extended leave of absense from the corner to get caught up with school, and to get me a woman. For those reasons, my thoughts have been rather consumed with other things than poetry. I regret nothing, but I do apologize if any of you felt neglected.
This week's poem is for Lisa. Thanks for being so wonderful Lisa, and so worthy of a poem.


Lisa Mayor of Hobbiton

Make way, she's here!
She prances lightly, like a deer.
She brings gifts and goodies for all good girls and boys,
And lots of rum for daddy while the kids play with their toys.
Grand and majestic; she sits upon her throne,
4 feet high when she's full grown.
Riding gallantly in a chariot pulled by beeves,
Cutting hair with magic scissors that she pulls from her sleeves.

Oh Lisa Mayor of Hobbiton!
Upon us rest thy beautiful glow!
Our lives are made such splendid fun,
When you dance your Jiggalo.


It's not very long, but then neither are you Lisa. It only seemed fitting. Thanks everybody for stopping by Papa's Poem Corner. Don't forget that you can leave comments by clicking on the links. I love you all. Bring the beeves.
Love,
Papa

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 15: Reflections of a Lonely Heart on Valentine's Day

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. I was there. Those not currently found in my ward won't know that we played broom hockey with paddle broomsticks, on slippery ice, with naught but our shoes on (and our clothes, too), after eating pizza, with the passion of St. Valentine's Day so thick on the ice you could cut it with a knife, for a ward activity. Yubtub. I slid all over the place, but was pretty much the best one out there ever. So let's poem it.


High-Stickin' Me

It comes...
IT COMES...
with fierce joy I whack the ball--it's here!
My bum...
MY BUM...
is wet; I fell on my rear.
The masses swarm to get the ball,
I must not let my team down!
Swing my stick with hurricane force,
tornado spin round and round.
Point after point I score!
For each one, in my stick I carve a notch.
First one, then two, soon ten, then twenty!
My points are earned with whacks to the enemies' crotch.
Fallen bodies lay strewn about;
the rage of love courses through my spine.
It's red...
IT'S RED...
deep runs the passion of St. Valentine.


This poem I dedicate to my fallen teammate Blake. Blake, your sacrifice will not go unavenged. With cat-like ferocity and prowess, you stood tall and pounced upon the ball. You gave it your all, and I salute you. I will be systematically injuring every single player on the opposing team, and probably half of our own team. Traitorous scum who deserted us in our time of need. I'll make them pay... I'll make them all pay.
This next poem is dedicated to Molluver. Baby I'm your \.


Lover' turned \. Boy turned into Man.

Gas cloud--dark and cocoa-ey;
vehemently it escapes my lips.
Gooey, powdery it explodes;
the remains of which still cover my chest and hips.
Hardly breathing;
no air can find its way in to my cocoa coated lungs.
Throat and nose are burning;
by the toxic cloud of dirty brown dust both are stung.
The three of us dry heave--the man next to me doth spew;
It is worth every ounce of suffering, to prove my manhood to you.


Happy Valentine's Day! I love you all! I can prove it.
Love,
Papa John

Friday, February 04, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 14: Someone Get Me Out of this BEEFLOG!

Hi everyone. Did you all know that yesterday was Stooph's birthday? I did. Tonight is her birthday party/dance party/make-out party. The gaiety of the event has inspired this week's poem.


Stooph and Me

Stooph and me, just us three.
I own your elbows; you call me creepy.
Like two happy princesses we hold hands and frolic in the park.
You kick me in the crotch after I try to make out with you in the dark.
I'm mesmerized, and hypnotized by your stellar wavey dance.
I lose all self-control, and I wet my pants.
You call me on my cellular telephone when I'm two feet away.
On my refrigerator your pretty construction paper rainbow will stay.
I'm ready: Depression! Yet, you always erase my pain.
Tromping, stomping around in your boots in the rain!
Your boyfriends (all 32,oo4) are held prisoner in your love cage.
Your stories, like a fine cheese, will get better with age.
Although you say I'm creepy, at least we both know,
I'm not the one who looks in on me through the bathroom window.
I'm a traveling giraffe! I'm a gonna get what's mine.
Yay and hooray forevermore for blessed John and Stooph Time!


HAPPY BIRTHDAY STOOPH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Love,
Papa

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 13: The Reunion

Well hello there my fine-feathered friends! Yes indeed the day has come when old alliances are forged anew, and Papa's Poem Corner comes at you with a fierceness not seen since the Alamo. To all the new members of this little club, I give you the Official and Heart-felt Welcome you deserve. I should also explain what the crap this is, since you probably have no idea.
Nigh unto a year ago I began spewing forth the savory lyrics in my head in a weekly poem editorial. After 12 wonderful weeks (or three months to all the week-haters out there), it came to a sudden and sad end. Here we are again though, on the brink of the end of all things as we know it, and I for one won't go down like some punk. So here comes Round 2 of Papa's Poem Corner. This week's poem mostly has to do with the joyous fact that two of my best friends in the marketplace are coming home today and tomorrow. Some may recall that the first Papa's Poem Corner ever was an Ode to My Wifey, so it only seemed fitting that the first poem of Round 2 should reflect that.
Cody and Matt... this one's for you...


I Love My Missionary

When last we met,
How could I forget?
It has played through my heart like some distant song...
Three years now I'm waiting,
the darkness abating
For tonight you'll return to your John.
Plans of old we'll fulfill.
We'll spoon til we squeal!
Like merry hobbit-folk, we'll sing and we'll dance.
Climb to Mt. Sunrise,
Then to the Strip with our surprise!
and with yellow bottles stroll hand in hand.
My keychain still carries the banner,
The "I Love My Missionary" standard.
and Skeeroy still kept warm and at ease.
Three men among men,
brought together again!
Gemini and Queezy will be pleased.
The Spring of my lifey,
with Cody and my Wifey!
At last my true joy has been found!
Here and now reunited,
hip hop flames now ignited!
For the return of Pickel and MC Phetus Brown!

Any who may be wishing to catch up on old episodes of Papa's Poem Corner, just let me know by next week, and I will send those out. Thank you. Cody and Matt... welcome home brothers. Welcome home.
Love,
Papa

Changing of the Guard

This post comes in the form of "Half-time." We have thus reached the end of Round 1 of Papa's Poem Corner. We have officially caught up. The poems of Round 2 will be posted weekly. I invite all of you to check back in regularly for the greatest adventure of your lives.

I received a little message from my Uncle Terry (great guy). (He really exists by the way. Not like my Uncle Loiue.) I was touched by it, so I figured I'd pass it on. I quote him thus:

"With all the sadness and trauma going on in the world at the moment, it is worth reflecting on the death of a very important person which almost went unnoticed last week. Larry La Prise, the man who wrote "The Hokey Pokey," died peacefully at the age of 93. The most traumatic part for his family was getting him into the coffin.

They put his left leg in.

And then the trouble started...."

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner: Revisited

September 16th, 2004:
Hello again friends, family, and all prenatal companions! No, this is not the re-induction of Papa's Poem Corner. (Although there have been many unconfirmed rumors floating around that we haven't seen the last of it.) Think of this more as the reuniting of long lost friends who had a falling out cause they were stubborn and bitter, but are on the fast track to making amends. No, they're not ready yet to get back together and pick up where they left off, but yes for this brief moment, they will lay all hurt feelings and resentments aside for one night of unadulterated ROCK! Anyway, as many are aware, I passed a birthday stone this past Saturday. The big 22. (That is how many years I have been alive now.) In honor of this momentuous occasion, I couldn't help but have a poem in my heart (and when that happens you'd better believe that there is NOTHING you can do to stop it from spewing forth real frothily like. Very dangerous. Much better to let it out in a safe and controlled environment I say). So here she is. She's my birthday poem. Really she is the expoundation of a short song I began to write on my mission.


Papa's 22nd Birthday Poem

My genetic code screwed me over.
My genetic code screwed me over.
Cause puberty left me behind.
Now I'll never be a hairy guy.

Where can I find the path to manhood?
Is it hiding in the woods?
Or must I dive deep into the oceans?
No it's probably in the woods.

I will go and live amongst the forresters.
I will go and live amongst the forresters.
And learn their ways, eat their foods.
And learn to play, their manly flutes.

Oh Lady Puberty! Invest in me thy trust!
Sprinkle me with your magic Mandust!
Let my chest hairs grow strong and curly!
So I can put corn rows in my tuft!
I feel my soul is getting older
Buy I still look like I'm fourteen.
The future's bleak...
An old man trapped in a little girl's body.


Thank you all for indulging me in this little guilty pleasure of mine. They say poetry soothes the addiction to PEZ and I really think it is working. Whenever my supply runs low, I just fall into the beauty and sweet sweet harmony of rhyme to alleviate my need for those preciously deliscious candy treats.
Love,
Papa

p.s. This poem and message was hand-typed by what El Señor Morales (My Spanish 3050 teacher) has dubbed "Las Manos Lindas" (which roughly means "Pretty Hands") He liked 'em real good.

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 12: Farewell To An American Tradition

Dear friends and ones I love so well. This week marks the official 3 month anniversary of Papa's Poem Corner. It also marks my last week of work before I go up to Provo to live for the next phase of my life. On a sadder note, it also marks the end of Papa'a Poem Corner. No one is sadder about this than me. I have grown to love these weekly visits with you all, and these chances to express myself, and share this special part of me with you. We live in uncertain, perilous times. Who knows what the future will hold for us? Cody's dog Brutus does. He's prophetic. Other than him, no one. So I make this plea to you Brutus. I know that you don't check your e-mails anymore, because you can now access them telepathically.


Show Us Thy Light Dear Brutus

Hence forth and forevermore
the blackness of night sits lingering in its oblique sphere.
Put on thy thinking pants, and tell me of what's to come.
Brutus of Ages. Pierce my ear with thy warm words of wisdom.
My plea to thee is that of a girdled man,
Eyes shut tight against the blinding Fangorn forest of Dave's chest.
Unseen memories and living dreams roll forth from thy bowels.
Smooth as my freshly shaven toes.
On a camping trip, in a plane, or laying in bed,
Use me as the Travel-John!
Our only hope of survival lies deep within thy silky stomach lining,
and thy beauteous belching of forbidden knowledge.
A rainbow! A rainbow trailed by a pot of gold.
Let's hop in and bathe in its colorfully golden glow.
We'll trade recipes and birth joy in our happy cauldron.
Brutus be brave, but betrothe both brothers before Billy buys black beef.
Now let us fly! Back down to thy resting nest!
The Carmex will hold in the escaping moisture from thy llama lips.
No man is an island, but a lot of us are pretty portish. Like man-docks.
Mandocks with no customs expert to harass us.
I dedicate my life to thee, like a yearbook being dedicated by a large
French woman.
Signed, "I've taken a restraining order out on you." KIT. BYOB.
DATPIISLIMBTG.


That is my plea to Brutus. He's a great man... dog... I have full faith in him to foretell all as that one Nostrildamus guy would have done if he had been a real future-seerer guy.


The Goodbye Song - as sung by John Cory.

There is no tomorrow.
We'll never see each other again.
There's no hope for the future.
Today's our last day as friends.
Let's not waste it fighting.
Instead let's fingerpaint.

My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.

Let the Giant-Robot army take us.
Torture us, and chain us to the walls.
As long as you're beside me,
I won't feel the pain at all.
We could use our last hours to organize a counter-offensive.
But I'd rather fingerpaint.

My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.

Don't stop my love, you must paint away your fears.
Purple puppies, little blue bunnies, and superbly happy deer.
We'll destroy the Giant-Robot army with art!
They can never destroy that which we fingerpaint from our hearts!

My last day alive, and all I want to do,
is spend the end with you.
No one here but you and me,
and we're painting with our feet.


Well. That's it guys. I love you all very much. Thanks for your love and support, and for all of the death threats. Those were so cute. Anyway, I hope to see each and every one of you again soon. Except for you Burgess. I'll be dreaming about you tonight. Yes I will.
Love,
Papa

Monday, January 31, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 11: Stand Ye Still Ye Fiends of Yams!

Considering the trip to Mexico that I am taking this weekend with my family, I figured this to be a perfect week to get a little foreign. Our first poem will be written in spanish.


Un Ano Supremo

El pedacito de queso me espera, me espera
Un vigilante constante que no respira, no respira.
Los ojos abiertos que me miran, me miran...
Una bala cheddarosa me disparan, me disparan.
¡El grito de mi páncreas es feroz!
La música de la gárgola en mi voz.
¡El ejército de los Pitufos Unidos ataca en la madrugada!
¡Guarde la salida de heces bien tapada!
El sonido de destrucción y dolor,
Semejante a la guerra entre yerno y suegra.
Me voy a buscar una mujer escocés.
No me importa que sea negra.


Our next poem is a haiku. It remains untitled.


Watermelon Joy!
Gimme some dat fried chicken
Now back to cotton.


Well, thanks again everyone. I am feeling very foreign this week indeed.
Love,
Papa

Friday, January 28, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 10: Phetus in Tha House!

What a treat this week as we have the privilege to hear sweet words from a lyrical genius: MC Phetus Brown. He will be gracing our weekly tribute to poetry as a guest poetist. (Don't worry friends, you'll still get your Poem a la Papa, but first we'll enjoy the bulging talents of one so
talentuos as Mr. Brown.)
Our first Phetus poem is entitled: "I Yearnhardt"


I Yearnhardt

My hardt my hardt
Mine dearest Dale
with a race car you earned my heart
Nascar's greatest, Dale of the Earnhardt!

Yes, the trailors weep and mourn
"I love Dale!" cries my truck's horn
Believe me now my white, mulletted friend
sure as the wind blows the south will rise again
With our fearless courage learned from him
The glory of Dale will ride again.


Phetus's next poem is actually the expoundation of a very famous line of his in the hit track off the Fabulous Flowells first cd: Germaineous Habitat. The line shares the name of the poem: "Kick a Gnome or Two"


Kick a Gnome or Two

Piercing tiny beedy eyes
Lying whoremongering little guys.
Hard working and happy they may seem
Laughing cheerfully they do play?!!
No, no. Deceitful, cunning, devilish fiends.

They lurk about standing 1 foot 2,
with big thick beards to hide their face.
This is a gnome through an through.
Yes, the demise of nations stands 1 foot 2,
this is why I kick a gnome or two.


I'd like to give a special thank you and shout out to MC Phetus Brown for his dedication to lyricism.
Next up, is this weeks only poem from Papa. It's one that I wrote on my mission in my first area while I was comps with a man named Darek Eggleston. I call it, "Gordon Robinski".


Gordon Robinski

Up on the shelf, I place the elf.
He watches me as I bathe myself.
Gordon Robinski, he's my friend.
He has a cute little elf rearend.
And cute little elf ears, and cute little elf nose.
He likes to wear purple pantyhose.
And dance away his bemusing life.
Gordon, is a hermaphrodite.


Thank you everyone for making this another succesful week in poemology. I'd also like to congratulate one Kayela Seegmiller for having joined our poem club, and her decision to take my class on rebellion. Your first assignment is coming soon. The cheese one wasn't very rebellious after all, so you can forget that one.
Until next time, keep a wreath of garlic close by at all times. You never know what lurks in the night.

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 9: Splendid Magic Cream Stick

Well, last Thursday I was sick with the worst stomach pains I've ever had in my whole entire Peruvian life. So I stayed home and watched Harry Potters 1 and 2. What joy! I got so excited that I read Harry Potter 1 that day, and now, one week later, I'm finishing up Harry Potter 5. My obsession is complete and full. I invite all able minded and bodied humans everywhere to do the same in preparation for Harry Potter 3 (to be released in less than a month). So in order to become one with the magic, this poem will be slightly different. I have put no prethought into it, and instead will write whatever magical thought comes into my head. (Don't expect too much rhyming.)
Harry, this one is for you...


Splendid Magic Cream Stick

Days of darkness, and fear spreads o'er the land.
Evil unchecked, worse by ten than Anger CanMan.
Outnumbered, those few brave souls still fight on.
No hope of survival, just denial of what's wrong.

Then bursts forth like a well prepared pimple
a ray of hope to the weak and the simple.
Rare power unknown banishing evil, BEGONE!
Little Harry Potter gets his stop the Dark Wizard on.

Now at the school of witchcarft and wizardry,
poor little Harry has begun to hit puberty.
Emotions and hormones run wild in fits,
the magic of manhood will very soon hit.

Growing and learning and constantly yearning,
for answers to the past, and to why his scar is burning.
If you're feeling the love, come on raise up your fists!
My man Harry is tha master quidditchologist.

Mean teachers, dark wizards, the poor kid never gets a break.
He better get some Cho lovin in book 6 for Pete's sake.
Oh Harry, just a warning, you might want to stay away,
From that Colin Creevey boy who's always following you (I think that he's gay).

Now the Dark Lord has returned and's all hype on his game.
Straight up fixin fo' blastin some peoples away.
And our only hope for survival again it would seem,
is NOT a large fish, or even my spleen...

It's Harry Potter.


That's the end of the poem, but for reals Harry, you know I got your back... I love you man. And I want to give some shouts out to GrandMaster Bling AKA Albus Dumbledore; Hedwig and her crew; my man Hagrid, thanks for all the shoes; Ron, Hermione, Weasleys, Y'all got it goin' on... 'specially you Hermione... girl you definitely got it goin' on. Peace.

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 8: Wow! Week 8!

I guess that this roughly makes two months. Hooray for us! Good hustle team. Both Friday and Saturday nights, I slept at Burke's house. (For those who don't know Burke, just imagine in your head a large gay, Jewish frog.) While there I was reminded of why I love that man. It's not him at all. It's his parents. So Mama Skid, Chuck James... this one's for you...


The Gratitude Doth Spill from My Ears

I am the helpless acorn,
you planted in fertile soil.
I am the rusty El Camino.
you gave me motor oil.

I'll name all my children after you.
I don't care the danger or peril!
First I'll just have to wait and make sure,
That I'm not sterile.

To me ye've been like parents.
Loved me even when I was wild.
I'm not worthy to be your son!
Refer to me as the illegitimate child.

1,000 years locked in the mouse tower
won't change how I feel for you.
Without you in my life,
roses aren't red. The sea shineth not blue.

Mama Skid, Chuck James,
I'll never put you to shame.
No no!
I'd rather from goats be maimed.

You are the shining beacon of hope
to the blind.
You are the telepathy drug
that frees my mind.

Connie Chung ain't got nuthin on you girl.
YOU are the queen of the orient.
And you are no hanging, dangling Chad my friend;
You are money well spent.


Thus we arrive at the end of yet another week's fun fest. Due to a lack of knowledge on my part of valid e-mail addresses, I invite you all to pass along these poems to your loved ones, as well as those you hate. For these poems are both a blessing and a curse.
I would suggest starting with Week 1, and letting them decide whether or not they wish to continue (no such freedom of choice will be given to you all. I will continue sending those already placed on my list these weekly handfuls of poetic justice until the day you all die!!!!!!!!!HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!)
Goodnight.
Love,
Papa

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 7: Fare Thee Well Dear Jung

Many of you will know, many others will not, that my dear friend Jung-Woo Oh has departed this life here in Vegas, leaving it behind for a far better one over there in Carlsbad California where he will be serving his mission. For this reason this week's poem has arrived late. Yesterday I went to Provo to drop him off. In my heart there is now a void. Thus, this week's poem will be largely focused upon this event.


You Captured the Rapture in a Tubesock

Darkness.
My eyes try to grow accustomed but never do they find that light.
Sadness.
Overwhelming, swelling, bulging sadness that sweeps over me in tides.
You can't use Clorox on your soul.
You can't use Clorox on your soul.

You captured the rapture in a tubesock.
Then used it to beat me over the head.
You are the epitome of Korean rock!
There's so much I left unsaid.
You can't keep living in a bowl.
You can't keep living in a bowl.

Someday we'll be together again.
Reunited as long lost friends.
Until that day I will lay in your underwear drawer and cry tears.
I'll put on plays and use your socks as the main characters.
Distance and time will make our love grow.
Distance and time will make our love grow.

I feel you near although we are so far.
All we can do is listen to "Somewhere Out There" at the same time as we
gaze up at the stars.
I almost touch you as I reach out my hand towards the heaven.
Many people don't know that you used to go by "Kevin".
Know this: I'll always be your manho.
Know this: I'll ALWAYS be your manho.


I love you Jung. John love straight at ya. We are so flaming hetero.

So that's week 7's poem. I hope that everyone was able to get a feel for my love of Jung. Until next time, keep wearing your socks.
Love,
Papa

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 6: (I think)

I am here dear friends. Once again. Due to some discrepancies regarding the lyrical content of some of JC 2 Smoof's songs/flows, this week we'll delve into one of those songs. A priceless gem he likes to call "Superman".


Superman - by JC 2 Smoof

I'm a cookie monster
and I can flow longer and stronger
than steel wool
I ain't your mama's fool
I'm just livin' in your stool
My favorite tool is a socket wrench, with a cheddar stench.
I bench twenty pounds a day with yo mama,
and the Dali Lama, in his pajamas.
Confess I play chess with the best.
Oh bless me now while I'm wearing a dress.

Who's JC 2 Smoof?
Dat fool in tha Superman underoos.
(repeated)

My super-elastic plastic, is mantastic.
Now it's time to get drastic.
So back up off my leg hairs,
cause you can't graze there
There's dingleberries in my underwear.
My skidmarks, they's off tha charts.
They brown like hip-hop pop tarts (tippity toppin' tha charts)
I wanna kiss Sparticus, and you know I get down like this...

Who's JC 2 Smoof?
Dat fool in tha Superman underoos.
(repeated)

I had a dream, in my latrine:
That I play with Kevin Day, in my bidet
(repeated)


Thus flows the epic poem/song “Superman”. I hope that you all have enjoyed this journey into the hype-oppressed rage of JC 2 Smoof. He sends his warmest regards to all the loyal fans that have stuck by him throughout all of these trying times with his arrest for possesion of illegal substances, his trial in the tax fraud scandal, AIDS, and other misfortunes that have beset him. He’ll never forget you, and he says, “Keep yo heads up fo tha Reunion Tour of the Flowells once I get out of all this mess.” On a happier note, he and Martha Stewart have become friends since both their imprisonments, and Mr. 2 Smoof has dedicated his next rap to her.
This is John Cory, signing off.
Thanks.
Love,
Papa

Thursday, January 27, 2005

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 5: Into the Night Like Feces a Fire!

How could I contain the joy I feel at having Spring Break here at my doorstep, pushing his way on into my house, and me helpless to stop him for I am weak and bloated like a birthing camel.
So here it goes.


Break Me Off a Piece of that Fine Old Spring Stick

What joy! Spring Break!
My heart doth ache!
I've been dazed in a stupor for days.

My bottom is numb,
from endless sitting on my bum,
But now I'll stretch wings, and I'll play!

Just try and hold me back,
I'm the Human Heart-Attack!
To jail I won't go back!
I'm not black! I'm not black!

The ocean she calls me,
Come hither man banshee!
Fill my shoes with her sand.

Drink of her essence,
enslave all the peasants!
Flee from Human Heart-Attack Man!

Just try and hold me back,
I'm the Human Heart-Attack!
To jail I won't go back!
I'm not black! I'm not black!

Nothing could make my joy fade.
Not even were I to get spayed.
I'm jump roping with the Gay Chain!

Wrap me up like a crepe.
Gaseously doth my joy escape.
No pain feign I, plain insane!

Just try and hold me back,
I'm the Human Heart-Attack!
To jail I won't go back!
I'm not black! I'm not black.


May your Spring Breaks whenever they be, or not be (for you silly BYUians) bring you a plethora of bed wettings and joy.
Love,
Papa

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 4: Martha Stewart's Love Ballad

Greetings Fairy Nymphs and Children of the Night. I come to you now as one eating a large #5 on white sandwich from Subway. We'll only be having one poem this week due largely to the fact that this particular poem is very emotionally draining for me. I think I'd have an emotional meltdown if I tried to do two. So for my sake and the sake of faint-hearted poets everywhere, we'll just have the one.


Martha My Dear...

Martha you don't know just what you do,
when you wear that sexy moo moo.
You're the giant woman mallet driving love nails deep into my heart.

Baby you don't know just what you do,
when you dance your sexy voodoo.
You're the woman cleaver hacking my beefy soul apart.

Words are useless as my appendix.
Tongue cannot describe your beauty.
Gladly I'd amputate my feet,
just to be able to place them in the same jar as your amputated feet.

So Martha my Dear,
my words did you hear?
Know that I love you like Denver

I will wait for you my dear,
while you serve your sentence.
Then, we will run away forever.


Thus we reach the end of week 4's poem. I would like to thank all of the millions of viewers tuning in to our program for your constant support. Without your support none of this would have been possible. So remember this November to vote for duct tape. That crap fixes everything.

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 3: Shellfish From The Denver Basin

Hello and welcome one and all to this week's edition of what has quickly grown into America's Favorite Past-time. I apologize for the delay, but as some of you may know, I was up in Provo
over the weekend, and took rather ill. (Phlegm bombs exploding from my throat every 20 seconds! Wicked crazy drugs! Disco Roller-skating!)

Our first poem is the teaser from last week:


Forward March! (When bowel movements go wrong).

Courage men!
Get ye forward!
Do not fear the sound nor smell!
Danger lurks,
round every corner.
Hold your breath DO NOT INHALE!
The floor below us,
begins to quake.
But fear not, I won't lead you astray!
I am your compass,
I am your Captain.
I alone know the way.
These bowel movements,
are getting stronger.
We can't go back though hope be gone.
Forward March!
We will triumph!
E'en when bowel movements go wrong.


The next specimen of Manpoem that I have for you is one I wrote just today at work. It is written in letter form and must be read with certain rhythm. Feel free to rap it as Randolph is black.


Dear Gandalf,
This is your nephew Randolph. If you would take the sand off, I'd hand off the precious golden ring. Que BLING! I swear I ate no thing! Just elvish bread, and Sudafed, and a little can of corn. Poor Aragorn! His heart is torn 'tween Elf-woman, Man-woman, and woman that was hobbit-born. Frodo. Mistaken for a girl, by all the world of Middle-Earth since his day of birth cause his pretty golden curls. Well Gandalf, I must go. Give my love to Bilbo. Cause now I'm done, I must flush then run. It's sure been fun, but now my bum is numb.

Until next week, may your your foreheads grow like the mighty oak.

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 2: German Warhound

Welcome everyone to week two in this limited edition, ongoing series, lifetime achievement, once in a lifetime, spandex durability test poemfest. This week will be two short poems as opposed to one long one.

This week's first gem of the nile is entitled: "Lies and Deceit"

and now without further adieu...


Lies and Deceit

You got the nun to believe you,
you hid from her the truth.
And now she's searching high and low,
for her missing shoes...
but you can't lie to your feet...


The second poem is entitled: "Anger CanMan"


Anger CanMan

Do you dare open me?
I just might come a burstin'
Spewing forth frothy fizz of DOOM
who will defend your people from my carbonated wrath?
I am unstoppable!
You seal your fate with every centimeter of my top you pop...
I AM ANGER CANMAN!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you one and all for joining me in this week's edition of Papa's Poem Corner: German Warhound. I hope to see you all again next week when we delve into the recesses of the human mind and explore my masculinity in a little poem I like to call: "Forward March! (When bowel movements go wrong)."
Love,
Papa

Papa's Poem Corner Episode 1: Wifey's Nugget

Hello all! Some of you may remember me. For those who don't, I probably got your e-mail address by secret when you were drunk at your birthday party. That may help explain any missing socks or Snak-Paks, too.

This week's nugget:


Ode to Wifey


Years ago,
but what seems like yesterday
running hand in hand,
playing nymph orange games.
From you I learned the alphabet,
From you I learned to breathe.
From you I learned that nothing,
means more than you to me.
You are my Cadillac of love.
A specter endlessly frolicking in my mind.
I draw your picture on the wall in front of my toilet,
and sit there and stare, constantly staring...
You are so omphin pretty
I'll drink some more to that.
You are a blooming rose
You're my Wifey Matt.