TEETH Poetry

This is my face,
from outer space -
the Town Whore will now present
her speech: "they're going like
hotcakes, they are,
squire"
The end.

TEETH Poetry

Dirty couches,
Cigarette holed pouches
And then the little person crouches,
Behind a wall because he wasn’t very tall,
He hangs for dear life before he falls,
And crawls
And rawls
And mauls,
At her stockings.

TEETH Poetry

Captain Manwitch
Makes a sandwich
Puts it in a bowl
And smokes it.