you get back from the postapocalypsalon
and put that bright postapocalipstick on
you tone your thighs on a postapocelliptical machine
stop in at poststarbuckslypse for fix of caffeine
you end each sentence with a postapocellipsis...
I know I'm just a clone of a clone
but you shouldn't be postapacalone
I'll get down on my bionic knee
will you postapacelope with me?
You could make me the happiest man alive
I know that's not saying much
do our part to help the human race survive
in our cozy scrap metal hutch
we could be so happy together
safe from radioactive weather
safe from atomic radiation's swelter
in our cozy little fallout shelter
I wait for you with a scarred smile
as you walk down the broken aisle
I feel my mechanical respiratory system temporarily fail
when I see the sparkle in your symbiotic eye as I lift your veil
starting a new life of apocalyptic bliss
as we say "I do" and apocalyptikiss
2 comments:
You're sick. Both figuratively and literally, he he.
But that is still friggin awesome!
Anyway, as for my greatest accomlishment, I still made it FAR above the average. And that wasn't my greatest feat, not even close.
This is amazing! Awesome! Give the man a pulitzer. . . or whatever really awesome awards are given to poet people.
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