I Wrote her a love letter but she dropped it. No money for the metro so we hopped it. No money for the petro so I hocked a loogie Then pawnshop hocked it: Spitting that sick **** for profit. We sat prostrate in front of our profit, then, With her wet wig at the end of my mop-stick. Check her prospects, then, blurry her optics. We fly out in a flurry of topics. I'm the nit-wit in her twit-pics: The photo-bomber. But she stopped its clock-ticks when she cropped it. I should have told her, I'm so fly she would die in my ****-pit. And the Black Box is, The love letter in her back pocket but she dropped it.
The ******* Wind (~Mk.) Notsuoh Poetry Night. Houston, Tx.