3 pomes that have the stink of Friday

This is my poem to all of the gays
who sneak up behind me with
sneaky gay rays


this is the poem about my black cat
who bites when she's happy
and jumps around
eating bunnies and all of their babies.
the small ones whose eyes are
peep, peep, peeping
and whose bones are like
peanut brittle
with the crunch of summer
i save on catfood


poor people are so funny
with their dirty little hands
and sharp, ragged clothes
the rotten teeth and the hump
that makes them stump shuffle slump
but when they dance
and their cares stumble
then they're not funny anymore
and then the hate