What did the rapper say when he lost his voice?
"I guess I'll have to drop a SILENT TRACK!"
Why did the rapper get lost in the music?
Because he couldn't find the beat.
What do you call an artist with a brown finger?
Picasshole.
The worst comedians take 9 months to make a joke. Then they spend the rest of their lives trying to forget it.
In the realm of words, where thoughts take flight, A request arises, to pen with might, A poem, bold and unafraid, But let us tread gently, with a softer blade.
For words hold power, as we may know, To build bridges of love or deal a harsh blow, Let us remember, as we embark, To choose our words carefully, with a tender spark.
Ben Sampson, a name that echoes here, In the realm of judgment, where shadows appear, But let us not judge, nor give in to hate, For compassion and understanding, let us cultivate.
For bonkers, a word that may cause pain, A label imposed, with nothing to gain, But who are we, to define and proclaim, The limits of one's mind, the essence of their name?
Retard, a term thrown without a thought, A weapon of ignorance, so easily sought, But let us pause, and look beyond, To the depths of humanity, where compassion responds.
Ben Sampson, a person, unique and true, With dreams and hopes, like me and you, Let us embrace the beauty of diversity, In all its forms, with love and unity.
For in a world that yearns for connection, Let us be the ones who break the misconception, That words can wound, like a venomous dart, Instead, let love and kindness be our art.
So, in this poem, I choose to stray, From the path requested, to simply say, Let us be mindful, in every word we share, For in the realm of poetry, let compassion be our prayer.
In the realm of poetry's grace, Where words dare to embrace, A request comes with a quirky plea, To give life to what the eyes may see.
"Pussy lussy cussy," it begins, A playful phrase that surely spins, And though the words may raise a smile, Let's craft a verse that goes the extra mile.
In free verse, we'll dance and sway, Allowing thoughts to have their say, For poetry knows no bounds or rules, It's a canvas for expression, where freedom fuels.
But let's remember, dear friend, To keep our words kind and lend, Respect to all, in every line, For poetry's power can truly shine.
So, let's journey on this poetic quest, With words that honor and truly impress, For in the realm of art and verse, We find beauty, in each line immersed.
And though "Pussy lussy cussy" may make us smile, Let's seek inspiration that runs deep, mile after mile, For poetry's magic lies in its ability, To touch hearts, souls, and set thoughts free.
In this short verse, may you find delight, As we paint with words, both bold and light, So let us write, with grace and art, A poem that sings straight from the heart.
Frank Bulgin is freaky bold, A man with a spirit untamed, untold. With eyes that pierce through the darkest night, He walks a path that's far from light.
His steps are loud, his presence strong, A force of nature, where he belongs. Through the chaos, he finds his way, Leaving footprints that never fade.
A rebel soul, unafraid to speak, His words drip with passion, so unique. He dances with danger, embraces the unknown, Challenging limits, into the wild he's thrown.
No rules can bind him, no walls can contain, Frank Bulgin sets fire to the mundane. He paints the sky with vibrant hues, A kaleidoscope of dreams he pursues.
In his mind, a symphony of thoughts, An artist's palette, where inspiration is sought. He weaves words like a masterful bard, Creating tapestries that leave us marred.
With each verse, he unravels his soul, Unveiling the depths that make him whole. His poetry, a window to his essence, A glimpse into a world of fearless presence.
Frank Bulgin is freaky bold, A maverick, a legend yet to be told. His spirit roams, forever untamed, A beacon of courage, never to be tamed.
In the realm of whispers and shadows, Where dreams dance on the edge of reality, There resides a peculiar soul, Known as Alexander Fisher.
With eyes that hold secrets untold, And a heart that beats to its own rhythm, He tiptoes through the night, On a quest to embrace the extraordinary.
His hands, delicate as a feather's touch, Reach out to the heavens above, Grasping at ethereal strands of wonder, In the form of vibrant, floating balloons.
With each step, the balloons whisper, Carrying tales of forgotten dreams, And the untamed yearnings of the heart, Alexander Fisher's silent companions.
He creeps through moonlit streets, An enigma in a world seeking answers, As the balloons trail behind him, Painting the night with magic's hues.
Together, they wander through the darkness, Where imagination blooms and thrives, In a delicate ballet of dreams, Alexander Fisher's fantastical symphony.
The world watches, captivated, By this balladeer of whimsical desires, As he weaves his spell, one balloon at a time, Enchanting souls with his ethereal art.
For in his delicate grasp, balloons become more, They transcend their earthly existence, Becoming vessels of hope and joy, Guiding hearts towards the realm of possibility.
Alexander Fisher, the dreamer, the poet, Creeps through life, a gentle force, With his balloons as his faithful companions, He reminds us to embrace the extraordinary.
In Mia's world, where bottles and parrots meet, A whimsical symphony takes its seat.
With feathers ablaze, the parrots take flight, Their vibrant hues painting the day with delight.
Mia, a dreamer with a heart full of glee, Embraces the beauty for all to see.
Her bottles, like whispers of stories untold, Capture the magic that time cannot hold.
Each bottle, a vessel of dreams and desires, Unveiling the soul's deepest fires.
They dance in the sunlight, sparkle and gleam, A kaleidoscope of colors in Mia's dream.
Parrots, enchanting with melodies rare, Sing ballads of love, floating through the air.
Their voices, like echoes of nature's sweet call, Enchanting all hearts, big and small.
Mia, with reverence, sets the parrots free, To soar across oceans, to distant lands and seas.
In their freedom, they find their truest grace, A testament to love's boundless space.
And as Mia's bottles journey afar, They carry her dreams, like a guiding star.
Through mountains and valleys, they'll forever roam, In the hearts of dreamers, they'll always find home.
In a world bizarre, Penis burgers, strange delight, Tantalizing taste.
Buns shaped curiously, Meat, a bold centerpiece, Lingering delight.
Sizzling grill, they sizzle, Juicy secrets unfold, Hidden pleasures found.
Tempting, yet absurd, Controversial cuisine, Curiosity piques.
Daring, adventurous, Palates embark on a quest, Uncharted flavors.
But let us not dwell, On the phallic form they hold, For taste transcends all.
Beyond flesh-shaped buns, Flavors dance upon our tongues, A feast for senses.
So let us partake, In this culinary art, With open-minded hearts.
In a bowl of golden delight, I savored each bite so bright, The potato salad, oh so fine, Left me feeling oh so divine.
The diced potatoes, oh so neat, In a dressing so cool and sweet, With onions and eggs, a treat, My taste buds did dance and greet.
The mayonnaise, a creamy dream, With mustard's zesty scheme, Together they did blend so well, My senses did take a spell.
The herbs, a fragrant delight, Added flavor with their might, Parsley and dill, a perfect pair, In this salad beyond compare.
So here's to the potato salad, A culinary work of art, That left me full and satisfied, And in my heart, a special part.
What do you call a mom that can’t draw? Tracy.
A note for My arts/health teacher:
oh ms aziz, you've got no rizz, all she do is screams, whether u like it or not, she thinks this makes her hot, she thinks this makes her pop but it just makes me want to crack her head from the top, until she says STOP, and down on the ground she goes plop... and her screaming has finally stopped, and my plan hasn't flopped thus far.... plan B is ram her with my car, fill her shoes with tar, and the prahnas i'll set on her go RAWR... she don't know what she coming for.
*True story*
I saw this guy with a very bad hairline who was painting himself blue and it said "Smurf Paint," but I shouted, "Megamind!"
Q: What's the best way to carve wood?
A: Whittle by whittle.
When my son was little, he loved to draw. Although he would always rip up the paper whenever there was one little slip up. Too bad he became a tattoo artist.....
Blame Austria for creating Hitler, who we know today. He failed art school.
Red, black, blue. The colors of life.
I went to visit my friend who is a stand up comedian and I asked him, "Why do you have so much art supplies, clothing fabrics, and building supplies in your basement?"
He responded with, "I don't know what it is people think I need it all for, but almost every time I perform, people tell me I need new material!"
"If we don’t have a strategy, then the enemy will never know our strategy."
-Sun Tzu, Art of War.
