For her plans were peculiar and wicked, As she thought, `He's a man, if a picket.'

She lured him inside

And insidiously plied The prick of the picket to lick it.

Joe's rod was stiff as a rail, But he couldn't let principles fail.

`You degenerate bitch,

That's a trick of the rich; But the people prefer honest tail.

`You may tickle the cocks and the vanities Of the rich men who purchase your scanities,

But the proud People's front

Calls for sound hairy cunt. So it's down with de Vaughan's panty-wanities.'

He picked a soft couch in her office, And tore off her pants and ripped off his.

Then he showed her the rod

Marks the difference, by God, Between what a man and a toff is.

Now our Joe was the first proletarian Who had filled with his sperm the ovarian

Recess of de Vaughan,

Which had sheltered the spawn Of unnumbered Fascists, all Aryan.

Next day his friends said, `You've been soaring, You're dead on your feet. Were you whoring?'

He replied, `Starving masses

Mean more than plump asses. Last night from within I was boring.'

And de Vaughan thought her troubles were over, Her picket had left (to recover),

But he'd furnished her womb

With incipient bloom: A fact she had yet to discover.

So after nine months, to the day, The employer in labor pains lay.

As the boy hove in sight

He yelled, `WORKERS UNITE!' And the doctors all fainted away.

The moral of this is, my child, By rich promises don't be beguiled.

Remember that workers

Are eminent firkers, And go left, if you must be defiled.

Re: One limerick (in English)

Newsgroups: relcom.humor From: gambit.msk.su!sas@pulsar.ac.msk.su (Serge A. Sekaev) Subject: Re: One limerick (in English)

There was a man from Racine Who invented a didling machine; Both concave and convex, It could fit either sex ...

I got a woman living right back of the jail, She got a sign on her window - Pussy For Sale.

There was a young man from Eau Claire Who didled his wife on the stair.

Papa's in jail, Mama's on bail, Baby's on the corner Shouting "Pussy for sale!"

Наблюдение за природой

На окне сидит ворона И кота в виду имеет. Кот ее имеет тоже К сожаленью сквозь стекло. И ворона размышляет: Хорошо ему, собаке, Там в тепле, когда снаружи Вот такие холода. Кот вылизывыает ухо Типа вовсе не имеет Никаких ворон приблудных, А сам думает себе: Кабы мне такую морду, Да такие руки-крюки, Да такие ноги-крылья, Как бы я ее поймал! Хрен-та! - думает ворона, Разбежался, мохноногий. Ты следи, чтоб от волненья Все себе не отлизал. Кот слегка смежает веки: Помню, в тысяча каком-то Не тебя ли я, паршивку, Чуть на перья не пустил? А стекло меж ними ходит И волнуется, бедняга: Так и хочется ворону Помирить ему с котом. Разрывается от счастья, От волнения потеет, Побежалостью исходит... Вот и лопнуло совсем! Поразилась тут ворона Неужели кот раскокал? Кот не меньше удивился: Не ворона, а качок! И, довольные друг другом, Так сидели целый вечер, А стекло внизу валялось И пускало пузыри.