By | 1 February 2017

Like Snow White in a heat of kink
I’ve lost my most. Glad
handles my mouth. Closed
in a cellar situation, I’ve never had
the satisfaction of cereal. When
I’ve done a pray I walk away. If
they so wished they could drang me
but haven’t yet. If you’ve done your homework
you know that an axe in kind has half a mind
to. And possibly fro but that depends. It’s one
(that one) beyond mistake. So much so that
Shame sends Horn home. Can you recall the issue
of the noise of the skirt he wore? A forced entry
(it says so here) is a commodity that sits ‘twixt betrothal
& the next guy. With him we’ll never know
if it’s dogs or crows. Or a five collar job
in Flute City. Therapeutically loyal,
we’re trading blows. Each numbered
as arousal, with eunuchs in attendance. What
in pink cups they bring us to quaff is the same
as that stuff in black cups. Or so we’re told. Me? –
collared & caned with no safe word I’d urge
some spill. As all mess eventually must
in this is there too much of us?

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