Kerry Allen's Love Emporium

Dedicated to Gwen Mitchell,
because some contest entries
are cruel and unusual punishment.

Baby, watching you chow down
On Ballpark franks just like a hog
Makes me think about your lips
Around my very own pulsing dog.

Hebrew National ain’t more kosher
Than the foot-long in my pants.
Hum the Oscar Mayer jingle
Cuz it makes my wienie dance.

Grab it at a street cart
On the go to get your fill
Or express your love of nature
In the yard on my barbecue grill.

Don’t mind mustard. Don’t mind chili.
Girl, I’m down if you wanna embellish.
You can even dip it in ketchup,
Just as long as you eat it with relish.

If you can’t afford no toppings,
Ain’t no need to pay a cent.
Don’t you worry cuz this sausage
Cums with its own condiment!

Upon May’s skirt, a tear fell with a splat,
the stain evidence of her upset. “Drat.”
This evening’s insult would not be forgat
by any who witnessed the petty spat.

Her thoughts were not those of a diplomat,
plotting revenge against the scrawny bat:
Instead of tissue, stuff her bodice with rat
And deem the retribution “tit for tat.”

Whilst she schemed of vengeance, beside her sat
the kingdom’s most handsome aristocrat.
He clasped her hand and gave it a pat.
“Dear girl, why did you run off like that?”

Her humiliation could fill a vat.
“Caroline Narrowbottom called me fat.”

He dried her eyes with his cravat.
“Pay no heed to that bulimic brat.
Her boyish hips and chest so flat
are less arousing than a doormat.

“I like a woman with curves to grasp at,
not one stiff and thin as a bamboo slat,
who purrs in pleasure like a well-fed cat,
not the tiresome whine of a starving gnat.

“Accept this ring of weighty karat
and join me in the islands whereat
I grow the beans that make chocolate
on a small estate called Montserrat.

“I’ll teach you the joys, in that habitat,
of the Kama Sutra and baccarat.”

She took his ring with one caveat—
by night, he’d be bound by her lariat
while she pleasured him like a wanton acrobat—
and fairly ruled, its staunchest advocate,
a vast empire of cocoa and nougat
where she lived happily ever at.

Bitter:

In spring and summer,
morning, midday, and midnight,
autumn and winter,

Kiss me, touch me, think
of me, defend me, console
me, ask me, listen.

I’ll know you love me
without Hallmark and candy
and flowers today.

Bitterer:

Hallmark and candy
and flowers say “I love you”
so you don’t have to.

Ignore me the next
three hundred sixty-four days,
obligations met.

I’ll look forward
to hearing you “love” me again
this same time next year.

Bitterest:

Your love means nothing
because you “love” everyone
you date more than once.

Modern marriage vows:

‘Til death do us part…
or ’til something better comes
along, then buh-bye.

But how do you really feel?

No ring nor paper
will prove you’ll love me always.
Just love me always.

Just for fun:

Take what you can get,
give me nothing back until
I’m an empty shell,

Then leave me because
I have nothing to offer
a great catch like you.

His face was cursed, his features odd,
Most resembling the homely cod.
Nonetheless, the ladies were awed,
For he had been endowed by God
With bulging manroot so lengthy and broad,
Even harlots swooned at sighting his bod.

They worshipped him where’er he trod.
At his clothing, they ripped and clawed.
Countless frigid flowers he thawed,
Both domestically and abroad, 
Using his lance of love to thrust and prod
With the vigor of a whole jousting squad.

Years passed, his horny spirit flawed,
Wastrel, scoundrel, drunken sod,
Pressed into service for a vicious bawd 
Until his turgid pleasure rod,
Having blown its final glorious wad,
Exhausted, spent, was permitted to nod.

‘Twas three months before the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Every creature was stirring, probably even (with my luck) a mouse.
Six partial/synopsis packages by starry-eyed novelist were assem-bled
While visions of Golden Heart glory danced in her head,
When what to her wondering eyes should appear
But a sneaky little typo overlooked by many a peer!
“Son of a bitch!” she cried, distraught.
“I’ve sent this out there,” she wailed, reaching for a shot
of bourbon to numb the excruciating pain
And singing that song from The Wedding Singer begging someone to “put a bullet in my brain.”

A few minutes later, booze and nerves interacting,
She decided perhaps she was overreacting.
“Phonetically, there’s not much difference between a T and a D.
Maybe no one will notice,” she said hopefully.
Who is she kidding? Is she out of her head?
There’s a huge freaking difference between a safe bet and a safe bed.
The decision-makers seize any excuse to reject.
Overlooking stupid little errors is a fine way to get no respect.
“Maybe they’ll be so engrossed in the story,
Their eyes will skim over like all those befory.”
She read it again, then released a great sigh.
Once seen, ’twas subtle as a fish hook in the eye.

“Well,” she thought, “so much for that illusion.
My dreams of being published were only a delusion.
I have a better chance of winning the lottery
Or being struck by lightning when I take the dog out to pee.”
Then she glanced to the left and her eyes lit upon
A tower of books filled with writing just wron(g).
“Hey, I’m better than that,” she said with relief.
“I’ve snarked most of those on The Editing Polief.”
And so she returned to her contest collating,
Heartened by all of those books she’d been hating.

But due to her fleeting dismay and despair,
She now has more bald spots than curly brown hair.