Bruce Boynton is a late blooming poet who has lived a life of adventure and intrigue in exotic locales around the world. He now resides in the strangest and most challenging place in his career, Washington, DC.
If I Ran The Prison (Issue 23)
If I Ran The Prison (December 20, 2010. Issue 23.)
I'm quite concerned with female crime;
the thought of beauties doing time
has moved me to a firm decision
I must be warden of that prison!
The discipline will be quite strict
for all the cuties courts convict
and any girl who's slightly rude
will serve her sentence in the nude.
Those babes who scoff at prison laws
shall be immersed in chocolate sauce
and then licked clean from stem to stern.
That should ensure my laws they'll learn.
A girl who loafs in idle prattle
will find her buttocks firmly paddled.
But love the sinner, hate the sin,
So I'll kiss each boo-boo well again.
True malefactors I've arranged
shall be strung up in velvet chains
and when there's warm and sultry weather
I'll tickle them with ostrich feathers.
I'm all for rehabilitation
so to advance their education,
I'll tie them hand and foot to hassocks
and read them all erotic classics.
You'll find that the most callous killer
will soon succumb to Henry Miller
and ere they leave that dungeon room
they'll soliloquize like Molly Bloom.
A penal system of this flavor
will extirpate naughty behavior
and with the help of heaven above
all vicious crime will yield to love.
French as She is Spoke (December 20, 2010. Issue 23.)
It all started when Junior won this trip to Paris for guessin how many marbles was in a jar, but since he didn’t know no French, he invited me to interpret for him, seein as how I had studied up on it in high school before I got kicked out. I was eager to show what I knowed, being as nobody talked French in Loafers Glory, where we lived.
When we got to Paris we looked around for what sights we could see. Using my superior knowledge, I suggested this place called Notre Dame de 
Paris, ‘cause it means the ladies of Paris and I figured we might meet some girls. We went there but it turned out to be this big old church. But nuthin ventured, nuthin gained, as the Good Book says. Since Junior didn’t have no culture I thought it would be good to expose him to some of the finer things in life. “I’ll get us a couple of tickets,” I says, and I marched right up to the girl at the counter, “Billet-doux, s’il vous plait!” meaning two tickets, please. Well she sort of gasped, not expecting me to talk so Frenchified and all, and I says, “That’s right, two of ‘em!” She flushed a bit and the crowd sort of giggled, but I handed over the Euros (which is their word for dollars) and she gave us the tickets. The French appreciate politeness, so I give her a cheerful, “Merde!” and we went in.
I have to say it was about the purtiest church I ever seed. They had taken all kinds of broken glass from off the highway, put it in a picture frame and stuck it in the window. With the light a shinin thru it, it was like unto a rainbow. Well, know what I did? I sidled up to this cute gal, pointed at a piece of sky in that window and said, “Sacre’ bleu!” but she acted kind of nervous and edged away.
About this time Junior said he had to go to the restroom, so we ambled out of the church and looked around. Now I’ll tell you, there ain’t a whole lot of restrooms in Paris so you got to ask. Now, from travelin round the world I knowed there was different names for restrooms in different places. We called it an outhouse back home, but some places use different words. The Mexican people say banjo, although I never could figger that one out. In the Navy we called it a head, but when I asked for “la tête,” nobody seemed to understand. I also tried “casa de Jean”, but that didn’t work neither. When Junior said maybe it was somethin like “boudoir” I was impressed. “Junior,” I says, “you’re a credit to your name, but you don’t understand French. They have guy’s words and gal’s words. It’s called masculine and feminine. A boudoir is a ladies place. We don’t want to walk into no ladies room by mistake. We need the masculine form of the word.” Junior said he had heard of masculine but never tried it. He mostly just does weed. “Well,” I says, “We have to try it now or we’re never goin find a place to pee.” So I walked up to a young lady on the street, smiled, and asked her where to go for “le boudin”. She didn’t seem to know what I wanted so I pointed, you know, down there. Well, I guess she didn’t know the word ‘cause she run off kind of sudden like. Luckily, we finally stumbled across a restroom out on the sidewalk. They call ‘em toiletts, which was confusing to me, ‘cause I thought eau de toilette was perfume, and these places didn’t smell good at all.
Finally we walked down to the river. It was real nice down there, kind of romantic like. I seed another cute girl and I sashayed by her and whispered “Je t’aime!” but she frowned and walked off real fast. Junior says, “Bubba, you are so ignorant. The Thames is in London; this here’s the Seine!” “It may not be a sin,” I says, “but this technique sure ain’t working!” After that I didn’t try no more French.
The Amorous Poet (March 20, 2009. Issue 15.)
Winner of our Dirty Limerick Mini Contest!
An amorous poet named Sandy,
thought his colleagues delicious as candy.
Their poems repeated made him overheated,
and transformed poor Sandy to Randy.
He pursued a fine poet named Annie,
whose erotic conceits were uncanny.
Her verse was so steamy his mind became dreamy,
and he thought he was riding her fanny.
An enchanting young playwright named Sugar,
was so sweet that he wanted to hug her.
He frequently dreamed of enacting her scenes,
but her leading men always got buggared.
He courted an Aussie named Suzy,
whose physique was really a doozie.
Though modest was she, she pretended to be,
in her verses a regular floozy.
He then pursued sweet Mary Jo,
whose metaphors melt ice and snow.
She proved so attractive, he turned radioactive,
and his private parts started to glow.
An eminent poet named Kitten,
was so lovely poor Sandy was smitten.
He attempted a kiss, was rebuffed with a hiss,
and his genitals scratched, mauled and bitten.
An Idaho poet named Callista,
was so luscious he couldn't resist her.
When she finally gave in and consented to sin,
she found he was shagging her sister.
He next tried his tricks on Athena,
and lovesick was he once he’d seen her.
Twas a chilly romance; she dumped ice down his pants,
and froze all the love in his wiener.
When sweet Sally came into view,
Sandy's bestial lusts waxed anew.
With the goats he did sleep, and he shagged every sheep,
so the kids all resembled ewe.
An enticing young poet named Zephyr,
So inflamed him he wanted to eff her.
When he came to her farm, she went out to the barn,
and discovered him humping her heifer.
A brilliant young poet named Daisy,
penned poems that drove Sandy crazy.
Her evocative verse turned his sausage to wurst,
and his once acute sight became hazy.
A beautiful girl named Louise,
wrote him verses intended to please.
But his mind in the gutter turned his putter to butter,
and his testicles shrank into peas.
But there came a sad end to poor Sandy,
who read all the porn that there can be.
It made him so hot he combusted on spot,
and alas, there was no water handy.