1
The population must go down;
but workers shouldn't wear a frown.
2
It's time for me to write a list:
no one on it will be missed.
3
I have a cleaver by my side:
I shall not let my fingers bide.
4
I see the porcine people pass:
it's time to get up off my ass.
5
Those game-show watchers they must go;
no trash TV din my tomorrow.
6
That poet wuss who smells a rose,
into the compost (tip) he goes.
THE END
7
Now men in white stand all around:
my arms to my own sides are bound.
8
They put me in a padded cell.
Let cleavers be. Remember well!
THE UTTER END
YOU ARE READING
Potatoes
PoetryHot, Sweet, Saucy, Spicy - always filling/fattening. Donder - vb. To blunder about aimlessly, not knowing what the feck one is at.
