pssive w nker
Off The Cuff … Of A Bone (A Rebutt) - Poem by pssive w nker
off the bone and against the dry …
my siren swirls and does not cease fire
Your voices lift me to burn with desire
and if the raconteurs or the Gods
were just a little pleased
once more I’d go down and bend my tree
stay fit, keep health and spore me ample
I’ve had a taste and I’ll keep the sample..
Of famine and pest I shudder to think
but please come to bed I want to drink
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