When I see a blonde smile
my brain thinks YUM!
but my mind mutters “ew”,
’cause ewes ain’t nothin’ but users
and these so-called snow-coned Haagen-Daz burpin’
bald-beavered bitches bangin’ to Bieber
and phony riches in britches in these
faux golden days, are more like
golden showers on your face and yellow snow that you taste,
a bill of false goods sold saltly
and sheeply by vetiver vixens who beat me – “Be Him” they say, beltin’
so sweetly, to give me the ‘betes, to cope,
type 1 or type 2, it don’t matter, it’s all the
monogamy-moo rope – “me me me” – No, please kill me! and the rams
are no better, they’re wrapped in Xmas sweaters knit in stitches,
bigger bitches than the ill spoken of fleeced
Clarice, quid pro quo- I doubt it, oh no, ho ho ho, that’s
a ho’s contract, but she gives less than
she gets, lest she contracts any unformulaic aid
in her tits, what good are they anymore anyway
but for a show in the day or other well-proven formulae,
to tempt innocent babes lost in lathes-
The babe gets a bottle full of
Full Throttle and pig’s blood,
no milk, no mothers, just plastic
globe trotters, bouncing, no brains
left, totally bereft of appropriate
nutrients, no supplements, little more than
chopped up mutton, I hit the
nail on the button – or coffin, why should I
sow a seed or a saint in these bloody
vamps of sleed with no
creed or true need,
only chaotic FEED ME witchery, they are
stung by a carnivorous lead,
interested only in their mini-wheat greed,
for they have no meat nor mead to contest this needle,
can’t even make a sandwich rise, they resent feeding their sent,
and rely on Oscar Meyer and
Mickey Mouse to raise their kids,
but rodents aren’t ever raised, not when it’s not meant, and
men’s hearts are razed by cruelty bent, the threat of mint ice cream bars
masquerading as a support, a la mort, which can’t
be given freely and kills love indeed – annulled.
What’s forced can never be given-
Free love has become a victim of a cuckold philosophy
protected by cuckolds with guns to defend policy and cancel honesty.
Is your vengeance worth it, even?
Who died in war? It wasn’t you whore.
Wake up and smell the roses.
There’s more rape in this prison, than
in a thousand stables of castrated horses.
We’re not your muzzled pets- you make a poor saddle,
bruising hearts and nixing the future
of every cowboy cattle and every onyx warrior
because all you can taste is candy corn syrup
and flowers over watery graves in your maze,
and I’m convinced you created this palpably cancerous atmosphere
for the chance to wound me to ardor, Maya’s bastard chancellor slit lords.
When I see a blonde smile