For Siring Not Castrating Poem by Mark Heathcote
For Siring Not Castrating
He ran a sword
Through her hair
To have his
Scalps reward.
"A pretty, girl, then said".
It needed (a better scabbard.)
"One more deserving
Of a country bunking,
Whose threesomes were now folklore"?
But what he wanted—
Were new ways to scythe?
Bale his hay fork into fresh-wet straw.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: poem
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4/25/2024 10:00:47 AM # 1.0.0.1119
