simply dance on the awning,
the yawn the tip
the slip the yip, the dog
has layed a golden egg
upon the ledge, in
hearth to warm to ice
to reave the soul from
slit-eyes shed
where tears hang like
pearls of jizz from
the hooker's death, she,
unmoved immune to laughter
morally proportioned legs
to arms to slippery cock
sheathed in the scabbard
of a soldier's life.
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