Adolf Hitler
was peeved that Germany was littler
than Russia. He didn’t invent the walkie-talkie. But proudly,
he invented the marchie-shoutie.
Osama bin Laden
at the turn of the millennium achieved stardom,
one of his finest hours,
when he may or may not have knocked down the twin towers.
Charles Bukowski
didn’t always have a house key
and was usually sunk
in a depression and drunk.
Erich Maria Remarque
wrote that trench warfare was no amusement park,
before giving Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo a good shunt.
It was never “All Quiet on the Breasts and Cunt”.
Aphra Behn
poured the following “satire” of John Dryden out of her pen:
“John Dryden has a wife who’ll widen her legs for a strawberry milkshake.
And he’s a Catholic dick-cake.”
Gary Glitter
would not have made a good babysitter
because
he was the paedo, he was the paedo, he was the paedo in the ring, he was.
Alan Turing
cracked the Enigma code and saved countless lives during
World War Two, but they locked him away
and cut his balls off because he was gay.
Edmund Clerihew Bentley
you might imagine was mentally
ill – he invented a poetic form that’s rather amiss
and sounds a bit like this.
