According to Pat McCrory, these are the pomes that clinched the lariat prize for the new cloudwatcher of North Carolina. Says McCrory, “Her pomes display a wealth of humanity that is only matched by her willingness to open her wallet. Sure, she talks about the scum in the cities and knocks ’em down a peg or two, but in that respect, she’s giving a voice to my voiceless employers at Duke Energy, as well as the guys down at the Jiffy Lube.”

When words are horses, turned to glue.

FAME is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate,
I owe my fame to Pat
Whose taste ain’t all that great.
I sprung to publish my own books
With precious, hoarded cash,
Sold a dozen to my relatives
Who threw them in the trash.
But I sent one to Pat
With my campaign donation
And now I am the lariat
And can has validation!

Because I could not stop for Apex

I like Fuquay-Varina
It’s smack in Carolina
A short drive from Raleigh
And Springs what’s made of Holly.
I don’t go to Durham
Cause people there is black.

Between the end of the Chatterly ban, and burning the Beatles’ LPs.

They fuck you up, the colleges.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They make you read humanities
And stuff by some old Jews.

But they were fucked by liberals
Who rarely watch football
And wouldn’t know a beer bong
From a three-way in the hall

They hand humanities on down
Those wads of books on every shelf
Some had itty bitty print
I did not read any myself.