A Specialized Poeticism

By Resident Fellow-Bout H.G. Peterson

H.G. Peterson is the inventor of the
Radio-toaster; a device which can toast
bread at a distance of 5.6 billion light
years. He enjoys nuclear-bingo and
poodle collecting.

An Ode to the Space-Men

From the stars you come in mighty craft
With ray-guns fore and rockets aft
Small green men in silver suits
With bright blue stars across your boots

To the Earth you come from outer space
Bringing knowledge to our inferior race
Your flying saucers descend like a vulture
Upon the sights of our agriculture

Though tractors you do not possess
Your work a tractor does suggest
For when in the morn we look up on the field
Our wheat shafts to your beams did yield

Designs you make into our crops
Circles in barley and squares in hops
Do you bring messages of peace
Or recipes for roasting geese?

Methinks there is another factor
You are just jealous of our tractors.

Several Poetical Stanzas from H.G. Peterson

“The Poe of Esperia”

H.G. Peterson is the Director of Children’s
Pop-Up Literature at the United States Library
of Congress. He is an internationally recognized
authority on 19th Century whaling vessels.

World War Two: A Poem

Well ol’ Mister Winston Churchill insists
We’ll never surrender despite the Blitz
The British Empire should never fear
Just offer up blood, sweat, toil and tears
The Nazi’s have armies and much air power
But this will be Our Finest Hour

Herr Hitler on the other hand
That angry vegetarian
Had Panzer armies attack East and West
Because he thought Aryans were the best
The Germans picked quite a few fights
And France surrendered in three fortnights

Hiro Hito and the Japanese
Were conquering islands with the greatest ease
They took Manchuria and the Philippines
And Indo-China and all those pacific scenes
Ruled that whole Ocean with a mighty fleet
And an army that knew not defeat

Then in a day that lives in infamy
The Arizona was sunk by the Japanese
Pearl Harbor the US vowed to remember
For the Axis powers they’d dismember
MacArthur and Nimitz moved toward Japan
While upon Germany bombing runs were ran

But the Russians were in a hell of a state
With Nazi’s at the Moscow gate
So Stalin sent millions of guys into the attack
to drive the fascist invaders back
At Stalingrad, on the Volga’s banks
And on the steppes with guns and tanks

Then on D-Day Normandy was liberated
When the British and US troops invaded
Though the Bulge was quite a threat
The Germans had had their match met
The Russians poured in from the East
And the American advance refused to cease

In ‘45 it all fell down
When the Allies marched into Berlin town
The Axis situation became quite dire
With Hitler in a ditch on fire
The Germans surrendered, every man
But we still had to defeat Japan

The Japanese weren’t doing to so hot
For all their transports with torpedoes were shot
They had no oil with which to fight
Their navy had an awful plight
Lots of planes shot down and carriers sunk
Too many ships now underwater junk

Even kamikazes wouldn’t stop their foes
Nor banzai attacks and their deadly blows
Though the Japanese did really try
To make the American armies die
Continual attacks with the B-29s
Destroyed much behind enemy lines

The US liberated the Philippines lands
And landed on the Okinawan sands
Then we island hopped to Iwo Jima
And dropped The Bomb on Hiroshima
Thus after our nuclear adventure
The Japanese could only surrender

We had a party when we got the news
And so we called it World War II

A Poetical Musing

by H.G. Peterson


H.G. Peterson is a world renown shallows fisherman
and crab col-lector. His poem “Dearth” was the first sonnet
ever to be read on the sur-face of The Moon (during the Apollo 14 Mission).

Trepidations of Light and Shadow with Crenellations of Fuschia, Mauve and Indigo

With trepidation I watch the girl
Her dress Versace and necklace pearl
Her graceful walk makes me wish and pray
For I hope to grow like her someday

Her stomach pitched like an army tent
Belly button to the outside bent
Bulged with a beautiful parasite
My heart so burns with morose delight

A bosom so ripe and swollen dear
For a day which looks it might be near
When the midwife needs water a’boil
And they’ll be needful of a good muyl.

I can see my stomach’s flat and plain
Devoid of life just brings so much pain
How I long for that cord and that sac
For milk-ripe breasts and an aching back

Woe is me, I cannot harbor life
It stabs my heart like a flaming knife
The great sacred bond betwixt two souls
So sad not to know in this male role

Birthing my biology forbids
This lack of uterus makes no kids
My urethra cannot let them pass
Th’other one leads to feces and gas

No vagina between my two legs
No ovaries guide multitude eggs
“Fern child,” my quote catachrestical
To hell with the quite male testicle

That nice warm glow, my face, won’t adorn
Oh, unto me shall never be born
Tears fall again as she hurries past
Ah, the shape of her well-rounded ass

I remember, my thoughts quickly cease
Knocked up’s alright, but I want a piece

H.G. Peterson’s “Bloody Stumps”

Peterson
H.G. Peterson is the inventor of the dumbwaiter and an avid pugilist. Currently, he is a member of the Board of Directors of Daniel Bester, Inc.

Dancing on my bloody
stumps
Making squish, squish
squishy clumps
As puddles form upon the
hardwood floor

Happy as a dog in trash
As I hop and spin and
splash
Even though my bones are
kind of sore

Go ahead and do your thing
I’ll just jump around and
sing
As my calves are mushed to
bloody gore

Bloody Stumps

Gothchick Mayonnaise

Lungfish by H.G. Peterson

H.G. Peterson

H.G. Peterson is a lovely person endowed with many talents, among them the ability to use three swords simultaneously whilst dueling with noted German princes.

Sometimes on streets the rain collects into dark patches of mud and corrosive filth fit only for the consumption of a few lesser-known spirochetes, all of whom are a bit low down on the pecking order, for spirochetes that is. Now, in these little splotches trod thousands of feet daily, and only about seventy or so of those are attached to brains that think at all about how the feet they are attached to disrupt the lives of spirochetes. Two of these feet belonged to Thalmudge.

As a small child he had thought often about the ants and microbes who feared his feet as the harbingers of destruction. These creatures lost everything to a foot or to a sneeze and had entire worlds devastated in the common game of kickball. Thalmudge never felt exactly sorry for the ants, he simply noticed their destruction. Sometimes a pile of dead ants slightly amused him. Throughout his childhood, and even into college, he had spent many a summer’s afternoon playing vengeful god to a pile of fire ants. When he was young he used water, sticks and shoes, and as he grew older he began using more advanced implements of destruction such as fireworks, shotguns and high powered rifles fired at close range. Continue reading