Her feminine fickle, does tickle my pickle. I sample the fruit. Tastes like a sickle.
She cuts me with passion, and when my pulse is crashin' she decides to save me. I wake up thrashin'. I'd like to cash in, on love's fashion, but she gives me no portion, of her cookie's ration.
Date: 2/24/2016
A strange poem I found while digging through my hundreds of iPod notes. Notes that I haven't touched in a long time, so it's refreshing to take a look. My notes on an old novel of mine are especially delightful :) I'd share them here, but NONE of it would make sense to any of you unless you've got a black belt in insanity, LOL ;)