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September 09, 2012

I decided to write up the most God-awful version of a children's nursery rhyme that I could concoct. This was the end product.


Harry and Margret lived deep in the woods,

Living their lives just as bunny pairs should,

Laughing and playing and hopping about,

Consummate lovers, sincere and devout.


Harry and Margret loved playing so much,

Easily filling the forest with such,

Din that their neighbors would fly in great fear,

Clearing the woods of all birds, bears, and deer.


As they were playing one fine summer day,

Margret stopped Harry and turned round to say,

“Harry, dear Harry, I must now admit,

Feeling quite queasy, uneasy, unfit.”


With no forewarning, but with a loud start,

Out popped a bunny from her private parts.

Down at his son stared our Harry abhorred,

Shocked by a second umbilical cord.


Wailing in pain, he fell hard on his back,

“Peter…that Peter,” in mid heart attack.

Barely had Harry time for what he said.

Soul soon left body, to lay stone cold dead.


That’s how our hero was named where he lay,

Honoring Harry’s last words on that day.

Margret whisked Peter straight back to her hole,

Placing a bucket right over his pole.


“Cover that massive, that monstrous baton!”

Margret demanded from her newborn son.

“Surely misfortune will it ever bring.

Only God knows who you’ll kill with that thing!”


Peter endured quite the abject childhood,

Shamed to his core that his peers always would,

Run away screaming whenever he’d trip,

And off his member the bucket would slip.


Soon his companions learned fast how to play,

But all the lasses were quick to convey,

Dread and dismay fore our Peter could come,

Ask them to stay and allay his boredom.


Charlotte the Harlot was famed through the land,

Skilled at erecting grand columns by hand.

Great engineer, trained in using large tools,

Graduate proud from the hardest of schools.


Charlotte on Peter decided to sit,

Try as they might, though, he wouldn’t quite fit.

This way and that way she turned round and round,

But still remained some two feet off the ground.


After a time, and quite visibly peeved,

Charlotte dismounted, deciding to leave,

Peter bereaved and depressed on a stump,

Crushed, hurt, despondent, and down in the dumps.


Noticing Peter alone and despaired,

Next to him sat down a cute little hare.

Shyly she asked him if something was wrong,

And if he suffered from sadness prolonged.


Peter replied once he’d waited a while,

As his deep frown faded to a sad smile.

“Cruel fate decided that I would be named,

After an organ that fills me with shame.”


“I share the very same pain,” said the hare,

“It’s a disgrace that I barely can bare.”

Peter then asked, “And what would your name be”

“Lucy is what they call me,” answered she.


In great surprise, his sad eyes opened wide.

Finally, he’d found his soul mate, his bride.

“They call me Peter,” our hero then said,

As the blood rushed from his brain to his head.


Lucy felt his love right down to her soul,

When she and Peter went back to her hole.

Such a cacophonous din then ensued,

Landslides were triggered and trees split in two.


Peter and Lucy lived deep in the woods,

Living their lives just as bunny pairs should,

Laughing and playing and hopping about,

Consummate lovers, sincere and devout.