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City of sterile striving, Where brains have not begun, I sing thy Idiot Faces, Thy leagued Commonplaces, Bright in thy silly sun! Thy Ballocks have no Semen, Thine Udders have no Milk; Ever thou seekest Bliss With Hard-ons swoln with Piss; Thy Gods are Bunk and Bilk. Fertile in naught but faking Futile each season passes; And scrutiny discloses Thy most prodigious Roses Are really Horses' Asses. Strange Cults are thine, strange Cunts, Dry Nymph and arid Venus; Or should a hymen bust 'Tis but a puff of dust Powders the satyr's penis. Diffuse, wide desert reaches Where no Mind ever wrought! Peer from thy cloudless skies Demons with lidless eyes, Scorching the buds of Thought! Thy passions all pretended, Thy pulses beat for pelf-- But should more Irrigation Bring dustless fornication, Go fuck thy Suffering Self! ============= Author's Note: Valiorum reading; Third line of fourth stanza, 'cundum' for 'hymen', as being more in accord with local probabilities; albeit, hymen, to the nicer ear of poesy, hath the sweeter sound. ============== Ode to Hollywood was Don's departing message to Hollywood in 1929 after angrily resigning after a year as a Hollywood screenwriter. It was published privately in 100 copies for distribution to Don's friends. |
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