Archive VIII


ccheetah@primenet.com

Smoothed
To the tune of "Smooth" by Santana

Man itís a hot one...
Like severe itching from the midday sun..
I hear the stubble whisper, like everyone..
But mine stays so cool..

My Wookinita,
my Space-Bound hairy Wookarisa..
You're my reason for the season..
While there's itch in your groove..

--chorus--
And if you say - this shave ainít good enough..
I agree this stubble's - a bit too rough..
It could change - your life,
..to `better' your Wook's mood..
Cause mine's shaved ..so.. smooth..

And just like the razor-stubble itch, under the moon..
Well that is the same irritation, that you give your Wook..
I've got some silky soothin' lotion, that feels so smooth..
Give some a try, give it a feel..
Or else forget about it..
--chorus--

Iíll tell you one thing..
If you deny him, it's a crying shame..
In every breath & every word, I hear your Wook
- cussing you, out..
Out in the sec-tor, you hear the growls of the Wookie's roar..
You feel the burning of his ire, so soft and slow..
Turning your head - round and round..

--chorus--
And if you say - this shave ainít good enough..
I agree this stubble's - a bit too rough..
It could change - your life,
..to `better' your Wook's mood..
Cause mine's shaved ..so.. smooth..

And just like the razor-stubble itch, under the moon..
Well that is the same irritation, that you give your Wook..
I've got some silky soothin' lotion, that feels so smooth..
Give some a try, give it a feel..
Or else forget about it..
--chorus--


m-l-s@mediaone.net
Oakbw@aol.com
mayday6977@bright.net
Wesson@mind.net
alesskis@yahoo.com mayday6977@bright.net
jenkal@ez-net.com

Hairlessness (Parody of H.P. Lovecraft's Nemesis)

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of bathrooms,
Past the badly lighted hotel rooms of night,
I have shaved o'er my legs without number,
I have shaved all things within my sight;
And I have stubble and cuts ere the daybreak, being
driven to hairlessness with fright.
I have shaved with the earth at the dawning,
When the sink was empty and clean;
I have seen the dark drains yawning
Where the black hairs vanish without aim,
Where they vanish in their horror unheeded, without
knowledge or lustre or name.
I had drifted o'er bathwater without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded tiles
That the many-forked lighting is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible rubber duckys that out
of the hair filled waters rise.
I have plunged like a tick through the arches
Of the hairy primoridal grove,
Where the hairs feel the presence that marches
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers
through dead hairballs above.
I have shaved by hair-ridden moles
That rise barren and bleak from my skin,
I have shaved by the frog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have shaved things I care not
to shave again.
I have shaved in the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have shaved in its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the hairless things on the wall;
Strange figurres discordantly shaved, that I cannot
endure to recall.
I have peered from the bathtubs in wonder
At the hairy meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven sinks I listen
intently for sound.
I have haunted the bathrooms of the ages,
I have shaved on the pinions of fear
Where the hair-belching Erebus rages;
Where the bald people loom hairless and drear:
And in realms where the use of the Nair consumes
what it never can shave.
I was old when the pharaohs first shaved
On the jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was hairless in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was smooth;
And Man, yet untainted and hairy, dwelt in bliss on
the far Artic isle.
Oh, great was the hairlessness of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its razor;
Not the pity of Hair can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the bathroom:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the razors of
unmerciful gloom.
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of bathrooms,
Past the badly lighted hotelrooms of night,
I have shaved o'er my legs without number,
I have shaved all things within my sight;
And I have stubble and cuts ere the daybreak, being
driven to hairlessness with fright.


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spotty@opticmail.net
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jerichoholic4545@aol.com
vttwinkie@vt.edu
Bloody Viking
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