I call it... Aaroetry
This is an ode to my roommate. I expect bad things to come from this, as a harsh reprisal verse is bound to follow, though from some points of view this might sound more like a song of praise... Anyway, whatever. Here goes. Feel free to contribute your own pertinent poetry.
My Aaron is:
A festival of delight;
He first works all day
And then he drums all night.
His boyish charms
And his sheepish grin
Are a terrible trap,
Concealing his sin.
He cooks like a demon
And cleans like a maid,
While his debt to society
Remains largely unpaid.
In his house coat he roams,
In boxers of silk,
An infenral engine
Powered by milk.
"Fuck, come on Aaron,"
"For fucks's sake, that's gay,"
Are just some of the things
You can hear him say.
A quick glance at his desktop
Will furrow your brow,
As you see Dick Cheney's face
Stuck on Summer Glau.
His buttcrack will greet you
More often than mine
Though his pants are size thirty
And mine forty-nine.
Just rough at the edges,
the ladies might say;
Some womanly scorn
Can go a long way.
But you can't scorn the devil,
With stern words or pout
As he pulls his car over
And orders you out.
Notes: the pants sizes are mostly speculative. I'm not sure if he owns silk boxers either, but you try rhyming something with milk, okay? For fuck's sake!
My Aaron is:
A festival of delight;
He first works all day
And then he drums all night.
His boyish charms
And his sheepish grin
Are a terrible trap,
Concealing his sin.
He cooks like a demon
And cleans like a maid,
While his debt to society
Remains largely unpaid.
In his house coat he roams,
In boxers of silk,
An infenral engine
Powered by milk.
"Fuck, come on Aaron,"
"For fucks's sake, that's gay,"
Are just some of the things
You can hear him say.
A quick glance at his desktop
Will furrow your brow,
As you see Dick Cheney's face
Stuck on Summer Glau.
His buttcrack will greet you
More often than mine
Though his pants are size thirty
And mine forty-nine.
Just rough at the edges,
the ladies might say;
Some womanly scorn
Can go a long way.
But you can't scorn the devil,
With stern words or pout
As he pulls his car over
And orders you out.
Notes: the pants sizes are mostly speculative. I'm not sure if he owns silk boxers either, but you try rhyming something with milk, okay? For fuck's sake!