Bare-breasted and snake bit,
she wants one in the hopper!
She’s a fucking loon
(some might say).
It takes a nutter to know a nutter,
and, baby, I’ve known nutters.

Ever wake up wondering how you got here?
What confluence of events or past life sins
made you and this day possible?
The Big Bang and primordial ooze
—or god’s benevolent guiding hand and Eden if you prefer—
all leading to that magical moment your parents shared
(the big bang and primordial spooge),
the conquering of overwhelming odds,
of that particular sperm winning the ovum race,
coming to rest against uterine wall,
making it past zygote to foetus,
all the way to potential human being?
Yeah, me neither.

But I do wonder about others.
I look around and pray,
“Please lord, don’t let them reproduce.”
Some of you are proof positive god does not answer prayers
(or at least has a wicked sense of humor).
On rarer occasion, I feel the need to pen a quick
“thank you,” hand it to the nearest babe, and say,
“Give this to your parents. It’s a congratulations for copulating.”
But I don’t.
Because I don’t like cards. And Hallmark doesn’t make one.

christopher…. ‘07

I wrote this mostly because I wanted to use the word “spooge” in a poem, which is a good enough reason to motivate me. It’s actually based on a real person. Only two people know this and know who was the inspiration. I think I am going to leave it this way. It’s not a very flattering poem, but then I seldom write those.