No more ring around the hussy,
pocket full of posers.
I will keep sending you a dozen
until you accept my steepest
pathologies. I want to be rapt
around your linger, not Thumbelina
under your dumb, heady for traction,
bushing around the beat. Mine own
slash & churn, my all night
wrong, rolling in the fray,
in the tar & weathers.
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