Still

All he
does
is run
his
mouth
like a
bitch
all day
every
day
to & fro
from
dawn to dusk
and
I know
exactly
what
you did
in the
last quarter
of the
berrrs
three hundred
and
fifty eight
days
ago
or
thereabouts
conjuring
the things
that
haunt you
to this day
the birds
told me so
and
the moon
blushed
so
shut
the
fuck up
and
don’t
make me
pull
a you
on
you
too bad
you like it
way
more
than you
should
and
perhaps
nothing
is as
profound
as tasting
the
glistening
hint
of my
peachy
nectar
on your
gorgeous
fuck me
whenever
you want
lips
because
I’m forever
more
a manwhore
lips
framed
perfectly
between your
well
manicured
unshaven
face
straddled
between
my honey
coated
hips
and
you’re working
overtime
to repent
until
it’s your turn
to cry
and
the pressure
of your
bursting
blue balls
dobs
you in
just don’t
kiss
your
mother
on the
mouth
next
time
you see
her.