Boys.
Boys.
Boys will be boys.
Boys will be done on her,
for she is heavenly, and
Heaven forbid he reaps the
one who sews and
supposedly
makes sandwiches.
Sometimes you have to stand back
to appreciate a work of art, but they
skip class and
have no class.
There is no art; only **** lips and
suddenly thrashing limbs.
This is wrong, says the dust speck
clinging to his soul.
You crave her, says the evil louder, go, go, go!
Boys, boys, all the noise with their toys
and every point raised is wrong
and mothers are ashamed.
The game of life was not meant to be played
with broken pieces, let alone broken rules.