| by Michele McDannold |
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| (January 1st,,2007) |
| Imagine that, please.
Spare me the one more night wet dreams poet fantasies skimmed off factory sweat and tired knees. You sound just like a bunch of fucked-up pollinatin’ bumble bees trapped in a jar of their own honey comb design and man-made disease. Get off your plateau of circle-jerk tease, I’m so sick of that slap-ass rim-hole condition that you call Sleaze. If I gotta go down on your crooked cock called pen one more time— Baby, . . . Please! |
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| That Thing You Call Sleaze |