Mormons on Bicycles
I have a fetish for those boys
That travel in pairs.
Their crisply cut hair and
Stark, white shirts.
The way their carefully knotted ties
Blow in the wind as they peddle furiously,
On their noble quest to save us all
From certain purgatory,
Or at the very least,
Save all those who dare to sit
Waiting at bus stops.
There is something about young men
With fresh scubbed skin
And clean, pure souls
That makes me want to whisper
My dirtiest thoughts in their ears,
And watch as faces turn red and hot,
And that look of innocence fade from eyes
As they realize that there are pleasures
To be had in this carnal Garden of Eden,
And I am the serpent, tempting them.
I look at these young men in their prime
And can only think of my own tag-team fantasy
And want to send buttons flying as I rip
Open shirts and unbuckle and unzip
As my lips travel down to the temple
That I want to worship.
I want them to fill me with the holy spirit,
And make me scream out to God and Jesus,
And the heavens as I descend
To that next plane of existence,
Where all is light and joy...
And heaven is mine.
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