Bulbous masters, have a grip on your
Torrid selves, have a steak or two to

Lease your nerves to a long term plan
Of containment, bulbous you tank, bulb

Ous you stank. Yet your shoulders do
Rise occasionally above the petty petty

Lowernessess that prettify and adorn.
You stank. You unflinching dust bast

Ard. Sink your teeth any lower and you
Will hit dirt where the snakes sit dark.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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