The Pudding Proof Prophet

Buddy, listen–sorry, I’d call you mister but I can’t honestly do so with any sense of common decency because you’re an abject object sitting like dump lump in top of the pile if life and all you’ve managed to accomplish so far is a loose floppy ipse dixit puff of unintelligible boom bah about you and aliens and the past and present future where the kneejerks and nutjacks are running the show from a clusters of micro moons they build in the outer reaches of the solar system on which they are waging a trans-dimensional Cold War with three different civilizations across the Nth dimension in which humankind is like some kind of mysterious stranger that rolls into town and proceeds to knocks the chips off everyone’s shoulders including the sheriff’s wife who you also make long, hot, wet, manically orgasm-filled love to while the sheriff is out with a bunch of hired goons shaking down local farmers for protection money which is apparently actually some knew form or reliant, pliant, and powerful form of energy that also makes a hell of a potent aphrodisiac that goes by the human name of Squeeze and sells quite well across the solar system but not as well as it does as a fuel source for which it is referred to as brown lightning and has really levelled the field in terms of the exploration and colonization and exploitation of alien planets upon which some humans have thrived and in others not so much but all in all we’re in not a bad spot universe wise as compared to some dumbshit extraterrestrial wannabes floating around out there through the vastness of space with whatever it is they call a finger up whatever it is they call a nose. If I wanted cancer I’d have a harder time getting it eating a plate of asbestos with a side of stress but with you, buddy, I can definitely feel some carcinogenic vibes but I have to say as I sit here listening to you and listening to you and listening to you i have to say, buddy, that instead of cancer…Well buddy, I’ll tell you what you gave me instead of cancer…Mister, you’ve given me hope.

The Madcap Satrap

“Bake me a cookie as big as the moon!

So that it may blot out the sun!

And I’ll nibble upon it!

Bit by bit!

Crumb by crumb!

It’ll be epic!

Of course the Emperor gets his piece, too!

That goes without saying!

My liege!

By the way!

Make sure there’s plenty of chocolate chips in there!

I want enough to go around!

Is the Emperor allergic to nuts?!

I cannot imagine so!

He’s the Emperor after all!

My liege!

Regardless!

I don’t care what it costs!

I’m made of money!

Taxes!

Slaves!

Ignorance!

I can’t wait!

For my sweet cookie in the sky!

Oh shit!

That’s right!

While you’re all at it!

Dig me a lake of milk!

So your ruler can dip his biscuit!”

The Mouthstipated MC

I got lyrical spastic obstipation

wicked bad rhyme spit inflammation

Of the mouth

The tongue

And the holy throat

Words won’t move

Through the epiglote

That ain’t the term

But it’s tough to speak

Seems I’m suffering

From sticky teeth

I’m all bunged up

Deep in my maw

And I can’t squeeze out

The poetry, y’all

Lingual paralysis

Got me dumb

I so need a word

That rhymes

With bum…