• Poem Thread
    12 replies, posted
Roses are red Violets are blue and girl, I'm gonna stick it deep inside you.
Not a single poem...
Roses are red Violets are blue and girl, I'm gonna stick it deep inside you. till you die
[IMG]http://i36.tinypic.com/2ppd7yq.jpg[/IMG]
rosees are red violets are blue when im finish f***ing your mum i'll fuck you!!:D
[QUOTE=Warriorx4;18064015][IMG]http://i36.tinypic.com/2ppd7yq.jpg[/IMG][/QUOTE] This job is boring Waiting for things to complete This is CNN
Roses are red. Violets are blue. Stop reading my poem. Fuck you.
Roses are violet Blue is red When will people start posting good poems On this Fast Thread?
Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet and so are you. But the roses are wilting, The violets are dead. The sugar bowl's empty, And so is your head. I see your face when I'm dreaming, That's why I always wake up screaming. Kind, intelligent, loving and hot, This describes everything you are not. I love your face, your smile, your eyes, Damn I'm good at telling lies. My feelings for you no words can tell, Except for maybe "Go to Hell" What inspired this hurtful rhyme? Two parts vodka, and one part lime.
That was quite a good poem, I'll have to agree, It made me lol To a certain degree.
[QUOTE=misterv;18440937]That was quite a good poem, I'll have to agree, It made me lol To a certain degree.[/QUOTE] This made me laugh I "lol'd" if you will, No need for a condom your mom's on the pill.
Roses are magenta, violets are blue, after you gave birth, i ate your placenta
I tried to make a Japanese Haiku poem, But it was too hard. [editline]07:55PM[/editline] This one is from the heart, man to hooker: My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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