Crazy Jinn Meets the Bishop
by Dennis M. Hammes
SCRAWLMARK PUBLISHING
Moorhead, Minnesota
The FISHHOOK Group
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Crazy Jinn Meets the Bishop
Copyright ©2006
by FISHHOOK and Dennis M. Hammes
All rights reserved.
The pieces were first published individually
in news:rec.arts.poems Nov--Dec. 2005
No part of this book, whether text or graphics,
may be reproduced to hardcopy by any means
including mechanical, photocopy, electronic data
storage and retrieval whether analog or digital,
or electronic broadcast, without prior written
permission from the publisher.
This book, only in its entirety (all poems,
graphics, and attendant files), may be copied
for distribution or inspection via diskette,
modem, Bulletin Board Service, Online Service,
or InterNet, provided that no charge (beyond
that for materials and handling) is made for
such distribution.
Scrawlmark Catalog #jinmeets.html
ISBN:
LCC Cat. Nr.:
Scrawlmark Publishing
1016 South Third Street
Moorhead, Minnesota 56560-3355
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
for anyone who has to suffer fools
If you meet the Bishop on the road,
kill him.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Prelude II
There was an old Bishop of Myrmidon
Whose snuffling and squealing just squirmed on,
With never a pome
From a friendlier gnome,
And the Muse of the lim' is a queer Madonn'.
202
There was an old Bishop whose terms
Rather burdened his parish with squirms.
When the villagers learned
Of his death, he was burned
For corrupting the diet of worms.
203
There was an old Bishop whose flakes
Gave oncologists shivers and shakes
But when put in a bowl,
They made Dockery troll,
"Boy, this breakfast has got what it takes!"
204
As old Bishop Tommy's screed wore on,
Providing us something to score on,
The limericks mounted
With coups that we counted,
For, yes, we knew how to read moron.
205
There was an old Bishop whose bard
Dared him Generate verse by the yard.
The Bishop saw brown,
Has a *feeling*, looked down,
And remarked it should not be that hard.
206
There was an old Bishop who handled
Himself like his Mommy had dandled
His manhood for life
When his sudden ex-wife
Found him nothing but bent birthday-candled.
207
There was an old Bishop, a k00k
Who insisted the Heavenly Spook
Had informed every poast
With the Holiest roast
When his lines read, "I gobble de gook."
208
There was an old Bishop whose tits
Were three sizes more than the hits
Of the suckers who'd bite
On his gaggy porn site
Where they found he had taken his shits.
209
There was an old Bishop whose "south"
Had severe aprostatical drouth.
He would stick in his thumb
Just to make himself come,
But the foam only came from his mouth.
210
There was an old Bishop, so dumb
He would squirm around on his own thumb
As he claimed that the prod
Was the Right Hand of God
And that all of the meltdown was come.
211
An old Bishop once borrowed some bits
To steal one hundred forty-four tits.
Now he claims that it's close,
But the code for the gross,
Like the Bishop, just drijbbles and shits.
212
There was an old Bishop, frenetic
That he not appear so pathetic,
So claimed that he burned
With High Code when he learned
That he'd swallowed a quart of emetic.
213
There was an old Bishop of Brown
Who cursed the whole 'Net with a frown
When he found human wit
Worshipped right at the tit
While they flushed all his drijbblings down.
214
There was an old Bishop of Stooge
Who fancied himself a rap scrooge.
He promised no fun
For the poets, not one,
As he marked up his nipples with rouge.
215
There was an old Bishop of blame
Who programmed a robot to flame,
Then programmed himself
To cavort like an elf,
Which is why they're both totally lame.
216
There was an old Bishop whose wish
Was to roll LSD in a fish
And then suck it a lot
'Til it turned to a yacht,
But he had to make do with the fish.
217
There was an old Bishop whose Muses
Were worthless for websites or bruises.
He's repost every word
Until all UseNet heard
Firecrackers with piss on their fuses.
218
There was an old Bishop whose kind
Was to think itself highly refined
To snort lines like a junkie
Then type like a monkey
Whatever his fingers could find.
219
There was an old Bishop who'd smack
Down again and again on his back.
He cried, "By the skin
Of my skinny, thin chin,
My own Peter is all that I lack."
220
There was an old Bishop of Niceless
Whose poems and verses were viceless
And clampless and screwless
And nutless and clueless
And friendless, and therefore quite priceless.
221
There was an old Bishop who'd hawk
Random letters as poetry talk,
While for sneers, he would put
His whole mouth 'round his foot,
So he even sucked, trying to walk.
222
There was an old Bishop, quite dead,
Whose dogma was fucked in the head,
Because his li'l log
Was too small for his dog,
So he poked his dog's Mommy instead.
223
There was an old Bishop, a slop
Whose gerbil would beg him to stop,
Until he perfected
The way he injected
His furry with the syringe on top.
224
There was an old Bishop whose link
Was not the post he'd like to think
That it was, just because
The one thing that it does
Is to hang there all limpy and stink.
225
There was an old Bishop whose plums
Always stuck on the Dockery's thumbs.
He said, "What a good
Inspirational food,"
And the chuckles would lick up the crumbs.
226
There was an old Bishop whose fleas
Tied knots in the hairs of his knees,
So whenever he stood
Just to brag that he could,
He would land with his face in the keys.
227
There was an old Bishop, a coward
Whose "porn sites" were Javascript Powered,
So that, when they sucked,
He could claim he'd been fucked
Though we'd see he was shrivelled and soured.
228
There was an old Bishop, a toad
Whose porn servers would not suck his load,
So he frantically tried
For the famed Other Side,
And has now made a film on the road.
229
There was an old Bishop of Liza's
Whose legs were of three different sizes.
Two wouldn't strap on
With the liniment gone,
And the third was no more than a fly's is.
230
There was an old Bishop, a queen
Whose view was exceedingly green,
But then so were his eggs
And the both of his legs,
Including the one in between.
231
There was an old Bishop of Bray
Who feared his succumbing in clay,
'Til he thought of the toys
On the big altar boys,
Then he knelt and intoned, "Let us spray."
232
There was an old Bishop whose numerous
Poasts would insist he was humerous
And that his dick
Was tumescent and thick,
But the flies said it only was tumerous.
233
There was an old Bishop of Christmas
Whose drunken priest made him a /bris/ miss,
So now he must whing
With the clipped little thing,
And we must watch all of his piss miss.
234
An old Bishop wore the Eucalyptus,
Being crowned queen of alt.k00kalyptus,
And he would so preen
About being a queen
When he poasted, that his puke all lipped us.
235
There was an old Bishop whose prizes
Swelled up into different sizes,
With wrinkly derms
That were crawling with worms,
For the small one was green like no guy's is.
236
There was an old Bishop, a pissant
Who dreamed that his poasts were soi-dissant,
But preen after preen
On the flickering screen
Showed a Princess both pouting and hissant.
237
There was an old Bishop who boasted
Of all of the times he'd been posted
By bois we don't like
And a guy on a bike
Until even the archives were toasted.
238
There was an old Bishop who cowered
Behind UseNet screens 'til he soured,
Puling and squeaking
Of those he was "seeking,"
But only the smell overpowered.
239
There was an old Bishop whose news
Was as old as the gum on his shoes
Which he'd roll in a ball
With the dogturds and all
When he wanted to freshen his chews.
240
There was an old Bishop, a native
Who was "California-creative"
Of ways he could suck
At both language and chuck.
'Twas a good thing his butt was ablative.
241
There was an old Bishop of Malm
Who had given his heart to his palm,
But anointed his queen
With the cheap vaseline
For he couldn't afford any balm.
242
There was an old Bishop whose limbs
Needed braces and Duck Tape and shims
For his every uprising,
But far less surprising
Was that so did all of his lims.
243
There was an old Bishop whose pot
Was a thing in his case he had not,
And only one Window
For posing his thin dough
To hooker the UseNet with snot.
244
There was an old Bishop, a globe
Who kept altarbois under his robe
To help with his mass
By propping his ass
And anything else they could probe.
245
There was an old Bishop whose signing
Would polish his keys with his whining:
He'd type and he'd type
The same dribble and tripe,
And pretend we were scared of the shining.
246
There was an old Bishop of dinks
Who bragged his production of links
And pornography, too,
With some chuckles, but who
Wants a sausage that already stinks?
247
There was an old Bishop who'd leap
At anything others found cheap,
But the lone rescue mission
Gave up on the fishin'
On finding the shit was too deep.
248
There was an old Bishop who'd fluff
And parade for his boys in the buff,
Then do them for free
Well knowing that he
Would be doing the worms soon enough.
249
There was an old Bishop whose bread
Was so thinly sliced that it fed
A cracker, a flake,
A lame beggar named Jake,
And the seamen queued up for his head.
250
There was an old Bishop whose gender
Was more than was he a contender:
His foes could just roll
His tongue up in his hole
Ever since he had had the rear-ender.
251
There was an old Bishop, a creep
Who buggered his flock on the cheap;
When challenged, he showed 'em
Salvation: a modem
That talked even lawyers to sleep.
252
There was an old Bishop whose glasses
Were stained with collections from asses:
A cracker, a fake,
An old fondler named Jake,
And a girl who took poetry classes.
253
There was an old Bishop whose fronds
Were plaited of shit plated bronze
By a froup he had coined
And recruited and joined
As "The few, the proud, the morons."
254
There was an old Bishop whose life
Was divorced by a mail-order wife,
His gerbil, the chuck,
A drunk pizzafuck,
And even his suicide knife.
255
There was an old Bishop whose worms
Were exceedingly pissed that his germs
Continue to scoff us
Because they hold office
For life in consecutive terms.
256
Here lies an old Bishop whose life
Was excessively covered with strife,
As you and your thought'll
For pennies a bottle,
And we'll even throw in the knife.
257
There was an old Bishop of FOAD
Who was buggered while crossing the road
By a little gold dog
On an 18-wheel hog,
So he finally had sermons that flowed.
258
There was an old Bishop of Lard
Who /knew/ he was not a retard
Because of the fat
That held up his hat
And made his left knicker so "hard."
259
There was an old Bishop of fat
Who kept his wealth under his hat
Until it fell off
In the midst of a scoff
And was buried by one passing Cat.
260
There was an old Bishop of Ex-Lax,
Who used it to get what his sex lacks,
But, being dexlaxic
He screwed his own axe sick,
And now must wear Special-Effects slacks.
261
There was an old Bishop of FOAD
Who had spattered on weald and on woad,
So he kissed at the charm
Of a poet schoolmarm;
Now he's making a film on the road.
262
There was a old Bishop who rated
Being buggered until he deflated,
But the only Tuck
He could find was up chuck,
So they settled for being hyphenated.
263
There was an old Bishop whose hole
Housed a gerbil, a shrew, and a sole,
'Til he finally died
Of the totems he tried,
For he'd wanted to worship a goal.
264
There was an old Bishop whose twinkie
Got stuck in the weave of his blinkie.
On the day he fell through
It was powderpuff blue,
But now it's more chocolate, and stinky.
265
There was an old Bishop who quipped
That he gambled with poets and gypped,
So he gambled with women
And now they've left him in
A place where his poker gets chipped.
266
There was an old Bishop whose fag
Found a crack in the Berryman's "Lag,"
Where it smouldered and spit
'Til the "Lag" upped and split
Though it still had the Bishop in drag.
267
There was an old Bishop whose tits
Drove the Dockery out of his wits.
With his heart all a-flutter,
He'd gibber and stutter,
And fall into orchestra pits.
268
There was an old Bishop of butt
Who peddled in secondhand smut
'Til a Crackerville mass
Who pedalled his ass
Put warm meat in the Bishop's cold cut.
269
There was an old Bishop whose link
Grew some hideous color and stink
For professional men
To prevent once again,
But he lives with them -- and with our wink.
270
There was an old Bishop, so gay
He only would come out to play
With a surgical case
From an alien place,
And that after it turned rather gray.
271
There was an old Bishop, a fool
Who produced rather copious drool
In a futile elat
To once equal a Cat
And cover his trail of stool.
272
There was an old Bishop of horseshit,
Whose every poast was, of course, shit,
Including the ones
Where he'd hustle his buns
So some out-of-work priest could divorce shit.
273
There was an old Bishop whose hat,
Like his head, was a tumor of fat
That would cover his ears
From the cheers of the queers
While providing more folds to poke at.
274
There was an old Bishop whose pistil
Was rosy, but not very distal,
So he sang bouquet
To a cracker who'd play
For the lonely do more than a fist'll.
275
There was an old Bishop of Dick
Who would hang it all out for a lick,
But his altarbois' luck
Was the Bishop would suck
And still pay them a nickel a trick.
276
There was an old Bishop, so slight
He would slip through a bad underbite,
But to end his adventures,
The chuckles got dentures
And finally did something right.
277
There was an old Bishop whose schtick
Was to crosspoast to look for a lick,
But the thing he would show 'em
In lieu of a poem
Made even k00kologists sick.
278
There was an old Bishop whose powers
Avoided the worms and the showers.
The primate, of course,
Was afraid of a force
Whose action's no stronger than flowers.
279
There was an old Bishop, so gay
That whenever he stood up to bray,
His braces would lock
On the base of his cock,
And he only intoned, "Let us spray."
280
There was an old Bishop whose ducat
Abandoned him up by Nantucket,
So if he would mock
What I use to unlock
The door to a poem, he can get himself another key.
281
There was an old Mexican gayo
Who'd butter his cob to sing "Day-O."
When asked how he tried
A real lover, he sighed,
"In de Bishop, we sinko de mayo."
282
There was an old Bishop, a rookie,
Who'as caught in a jar with a cookie,
And let out a shout
When the Cook bottomed out,
So now we collect from his bookie.
283
There was an old Bishop, a dork
Who was quite the consumer of pork,
Though much of it smelled,
But he finally swelled
To the kind he could eat with a fork.
284
There was an old chuckles who got
All the itching and burning and snot
From posting his link
Into one Bishop's chink --
'Twas the /rest/ of us got tommyrot.
285
There was an old Bishop whose mass
Was all in the head, but alas,
When it thought it would pucker
For any old succour,
The chuckles got stuck on harass.
286
There was an old Bishop of Brest
Who thought he was Natalie Drest
When he put on the rags
Of the great and the lags,
For he melted with every ob "/c'est/..."
287
There was an old Bishop, a nutty,
Who danced in a manner quite rutty
And did allemandes
With our threads in his hands,
But in Peter's fine hands he was putty.
288
There was an old Bishop who trusted
In Dockery diets, got busted
In more ways than one
By a passel of fun
When the chunk saw his man-tits, and lusted.
289
There was an old Bishop whose ranting
Would leave him floor-knuckled and panting
Or so we all thought
'Til the camera caught
The sheer force with which chuckles was planting.
290
There was an old Bishop of Krupp
Whose Mommy could not get it up,
For Mommy was dead,
So he built him, instead,
An Erector Set Chuckles von Schtupp.
291
There was an old Bishop of Bore
Who had once been a Head Commodore
Who had run his commode
In both sonnet and ode
And an inch or two over the floor.
292
There was an old Bishop, a comic,
Whose tantrums were downright Islamic,
And though less than mobile,
When he would churn noble
The meltdown approached the atomic.
293
There was an old Bishop of Poo
Who bragged that he hadn't a clue,
But when Cat made a post,
He arose to the toast
And recited his drijbble on cue.
294
A cranky old Bishop, quite frustrated
At having the pics of his pus traded,
Sent for some Hell
That could not spell so well,
And ended up thoroughly custrated.
295
There was an old Bishop of Brest
Who wrote many poasts that confessed
How the Tourist of Death
Had so freshened the breath
Of the Bishop by wanking with Crest.
296
There was an old Bishop, so fat
That in sitting around his own flat,
He took up so much space
He would sit on his face
Just to see where his supper was at.
297
There was an old Bishop of swill
Who claimed he had files to kill,
But could not come to terms
With the leftover worms,
Which were all that his time had to fill.
298
There was an old Bishop, felt free
Because he would not charge a fee
For helping a boi
Get it on with his toy --
Not even for two or for three.
299
There was an old Bishop of Babylon
Who found a bikini to scrabble on
To better adorn him.
We thought we would warn him:
It'll look just as bad as his flab'll, on.
300
There was an old Bishop who'd follow
Instructions to chuckles' hog-wallow,
Where all of his reading
Was prelude to pleading
Instructions to suck and to swallow.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-