Batjen

She is a bat. A bat
which steals the yolk
from the egg and shits
into your porridge
and slips off with
your tea-spoon so
your coffee is left
milky and makes you
you want to kill
your pets.

that, my friends,
is Batjen.
she covets your heartbreak
and leaves dookie in your
socks,
and she laughs at all your inanities
while sipping on gin and paint,
flicks her eyelashes at you like
curses and washes her underwear
underneath the table so as to not
to feel
exposed. but how now

brown cow. i have found your golden egg.
it is warm and reeks off ass and grass.
and other assesments.

i have found you sniffing at my skiddies
like a wine-loving french postal worker.
and i have you seen flutter about my window
hoping for a peek, you sly little p-p.

i know your game batwoman. and it isn't
baseball.