LOVE SONG: IX Poem by Nitoo Das

A playsure, an erasure
a damn cocksure toiffurier.

Leave me to my
bewoahing, you tenderhanded hoisterier.

It was in the hornice cornice that I found her,
slatherfolding blatherer.
Damn, damn wilchead and wilchold
went jooby boobying with her
and damn it's triff, I tell you

triff and nothing better.
Her wiggance is so gizsal.
So houndeous, so beauteous,
so imperfeccamble.

I think I need another tasty toisterier
like her.

A playsure, an erasure,
a damn cocksure toiffurier.