Really it is tragedy
Tangy in her buttocks unconscious of a man’s
Simple dirt psychology slap my errant face how could you? I bark woof toward
Her sand brown eyebrows and black and pink summer getup victors’ running shoes she would dance with me at the Saturday
Night Lion’s Club Ball if I had a government job,
Me all ballerina-ed in my pink tutu prepared to do the polka.
Sip coffee, my distant girlfriend, the aphrodisiac from God who made this entire profane menagerie.