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Saturday, July 10, 2010

Poang Poetry Slam

My wife and I are still dating,
Of that you may make no mistaking,

On Friday’s long nights, far away from work lights, we say to ourselves,
“Now what shall we do so we don’t sit at home and stare all night long at the shelves?”

And, last night after work I turned to my wife and when I said this I had her in stitches,
“Let’s go to IKEA and count pregnant bitches.”


It’s a game that we play, because we’re deranged,
With the Ektorps and Karlandas all expertly arranged,

We troll round the halls and our eyes scan the tummies of plumpy young Mummies-to-be,
We try to outfox one another and last night my wife spotted three!

But I kicked her ass ‘cause I got me five,
And that, my sweet loves, ain’t no jive.


I don’t know what it is about getting inseminated,
But inside of IKEA all manner of pregnant women are always congregated,

Some are shaped like pears, and some like bears,
Some are all over the Poangs, some deep into housewares,

But, no matter what, there’s nary a slut when it comes to the yellow and blue,
If you’re in IKEA, you’re bound to spot a Preggie McMilkbags or two.


And, last night, we were in for a shock,
We spotted three lesbian couples, mullets and all, and they, we well know, don’t like cock.

And so I'll just say, when the pressures of date-night roll 'round your merry way,
Don't fret or obsess over nightclubs, raves, craves, crazes or sultry barroom gazes,

Just get in the car, and I'm sure it's not far to an IKEA just off a quaint highway ramp,
And check out the Mommies, the frumps and the Swamis, and the chick with the lovely tramp stamp.

1 comment:

  1. i had no idea you were a poet, mr. apron.
    ps - i have a tramp stamp. it's... not my fault.


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