Raymond Chandler

She walked in--your mother, that is, and I knew she was trouble from the start. Her elephantine gams, her slightly crossed eyes, her flaring nostrils--everything pointed to a dame in trouble; in trouble from her own loose doing.

Your mom pooled herself into the chair in front of my bare desk, and laid out a sob story about some man who done her wrong. I couldn't imagine a man who had done her right.

Everything about this dame, your mom, spelled trouble. She laid out her story, I agreed to take the case, and as she left, in a miniskirt 3 sizes too small and 20 years too young for her, I suddenly flashed on a sign outside a Korean restaurant I had walked by on 21st Avenue.

Parking in The Rear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and varicose-veined legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, an imbecilic visage lies, whose flabby
Turkey-neck and gap-toothed mongloid grin
Tell that its sculptor well that pitiable ugliness read
Which yet survive, as opposed to her aborted fetuses,
and the buckets of fried chicken upon which she fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`I am Your Rotund Promiscuous Mother:
Look on my hair pie, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal skank, classless and overweight,
The pubic crabs scuttle far away."