She's the kind of girl
that craves cylindrical pleasure,
a personality void
of intellectual construction
With a wave that is composed
of a wiggle of her fingers
and a smile,
like a putrid smell,
it lingers
Her words are spoken softly
and their meaning is softer,
the intent is plain to see
that she is as lyrical
as the poorly written poem
She is
the product
of poorly written poems
Thank you Shakespeare,
kudos Kleats
you have all created
the foundation
of 21st century women.
The glistening angels
that serve no purpose
other to drain you
physically and mentally
The betrothed
and the smitten
write their horrid songs
about the angels
(They're called hoes now, Bill)
I for one
will stand my ground
against the leeches
But too bad the ground
is made of wet sand.