for rollspac, pornobunny, and T.; long live Leon Trotsky Trout!

        The lord god Ptah gave them speech,
        the power of naming things -
        then had second thoughts.
        The yaller dog loudly yips, fences with the moon, sworn
        by yellow disk o' bay. A nose hung up, back, grand,
        sniffs the popping corn; digs deep hole in orange sand,
        The yaller dog has pups. Oh, dolour of the borne.
        God of corn, Yum K'aax pops up from a dark cenote,
        poops - fertilized our land. Give the idol praise,
        sacrifice for our corn, (we Mayans call it maize)
        sacrifice for our rice. Man, better than thee goat.
        FoxP2, of the forkhead box set before son-
        net of orangatan, open gambit of 1.b4, before
        Mungo Man. God plays chess? Not so, and further more,
        He shoots dice, craps out alot. Man, how friggin wan.
        So clay? Dog shit in orange sand! From clay made man?
        Just one genetic click - go back to orangatan.

Ruminations and Lamentations

It was noon, the geneticist felt uneasy, queasy, nauseous with the thought that a seemingly random burst of radiation did something to the genetic code. "That may have been the trigger for man's belief in God. There is something in the speech center..."a minute later he was dead.

He had often said "I wish to be remembered only as dust", no monument, no service, and after the cremation twelve of us received a small parcel of ashes.

Ivan, I kept those ashes in your broken tea cup on top of the microwave, knowing you would see the humour in it, but you know how women are, the wife went on a cleaning spree and threw the dusty cup out. It had your gold tooth in it also, do you know what that thing is worth now?

The wife? She's in the kitchen now. Bottom shelf, in an old mayonnaise jar, lidded and labeled, so it's not going to happen twice.

Perhaps the hindoos are right, the soul wanders around until it finds a lower life.

I have a Rottweiler now, reminds me a lot of you, gets along great with the Yellow Lab, Tatiana, named after my dead wife. Remember how we all used to joke, when you where alive, about how difficult it was to get you out of the lab, but if you two don't stop fucking around, I'll have to get the both of you fixed. After all, it's the only human thing to do.

Ivan, if you are here in spirit, I have translated your last paper from the Russian and Egyptian hieroglyphs into English and rearranged it somewhat, so I can sneak it in as poetry, but to get it past Literotica's censors, I had to add the gratuitous dick and twat.

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