In Egypt, my dearly-departed Madam Mariam Fakhr Eddine, I shall
in your fading memory, hungrily imbibe each sweet, evil California
hybridized/cross-bred almond-shaded nuance during our embittered
night-tide tryst tomorrow of climaxical/ecstatical imprecision while
pitching fostered doubts upon the errant utility of what I've done, to
you by a whole-milk-cream queasy, holistical request, as a kneeling
neophytical trencherman satisfying your lassy/prissy rim-job behest
to satiate a back-log of nothing less tangled than a filthy wren's nest