Who’s looking for a good time?
C’mon! Every bathroom stall knows you’re out there.
Something better than the beach.
Sun and surf
and fun and turf
and a Frisbee hanging from your fucking dog’s mouth
That shit’s for posters
that we spread on the bathroom tiles
to scoop up the scat
for a little game we’ve come to call Sanchez’s Catapult.
To even start enjoying the monotony of monotony in this joint
you need at least a sucking neck wound
SUCKING being an operative word
And OPERATIVE describing the nature of what midgets do to our anuses.
It’s what you’ve been waiting for, Good-Time Fan.
The non-stop hedonistic, pedophilic, necromanic, pyrosyphilitic, agropsychotic, castratitastic, abortive, bestial, infant cum-swap you’ve fallen to your knees and begged your two-ton Indo-French mistress to let you get off on.
We do it with more oil than a mechanic.
We do it on more grass than Brazil’s dead soccer teams.
More jet fuel than the Twin Towers.
More rust than your mother’s ass and more blood… than your mother’s ass.
You’ve never lived until a priest has attached a lamprey to your balls.
And the bite marks spurt onto his collar.
And he laughs.
And so does the Pope.
‘Cause he’s there too.
No fee or ID.
No pussy to penis to power ratio here.
Seriously, you trust me?
Trevor actually managed to visibly offend the nice gay couple that wanted this poem, despite the fact that they provided us the title and custom words like "cum-swap". The Poetry Vending Machine: Imaginations Enhanced, Expectations Exceeded.