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Oh many-striped and sweet-natured Lucy
The kind little girl everyone’s so glad
To meet on Sundays with your paisley collar
And broad smile
Why do you lick your butt
While on Mommy’s pillow?

Oh my sensitive girl
You jump in fright at the pop of a bag
Of potato chips
A ‘hood, you have not lived
But shot you were and not so long ago
Now you are a happy suburbanite,
But why, Lucy
Why do you lick your butt on thee?

What’s worse, why do you lick your butt on me!

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Back to the little girl weep
As when I was 6 or 7 and all there was
All there was left was to sag in a sudden instant and exercise saline despair
Red and red-faced

The little girl weep now
And then bitter sobs for dessert

We were told never to begin an essay with the definition of a word as defined in Webster’s Dictionary.

We’ve become sophisticated writers of iambic pentameter royalty and look down upon the peasants of approximate rhyme and reason.

We’ve grabbed life by the ball sack and harnessed the power of a cockring. But there was a time when I didn’t know what a dildo was and I’m nostalgic for the days when I ended a sentences with “thus” and didn’t provide enough detail in an essay about the Great Gatsby, which, by the way, I never read.

I
Wear earplugs
In
A
Silent House

So
I
Can Listen
More
Carefully
To what
The House
Is saying

SOB with me

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