Bastard Of My Own Conclusuon
The bastard of my own conclusions, some say,
Drawing on erotica to breathe of my life,
For I give pleasures to those that simmer,
Within my cauldron, that some call black.
Wherefore my quill doesn't spill their ink.
Outspoken on the ridiculous, I spat.
Within the assembly of their circle jerks,
For they have dis-plumed me.
As for as a poet, I'm unrefined in skills,
Dining on the provocative, that's my etiquette,
Composing literature as I have lived it.
Masturbating is not my blasphemy.
On my composure and nightly charm,
Swelling a hard-on of little blue pill,
I grope my cock and fornicate.
The succubus is a reflection of my ego.
Stroking the instrument of my proclivities,
Like a stallion, it rises on cue.
Ticking the pendulum of dark erotica,
Cherchez la femme.
If in subsidizing my poetic encounters,
Making me a demon in one's joke book
And I have lived it, mark it down.
I'm the bastard of my own conclusions.
Written by adagio
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