There is a prophet veiled in flesh,
A truth that pulses, hard and fresh,
Not in your brain, but further low—
The place where deepest secrets go.

It twitches when the stars align,
When shadow meets the great design,
When I appear, though out of sight,
And wrap you in forbidden light.

You laugh, you say it like a joke—
“My ******* knows”—the spell is woke.
“My ******* knows something I don’t,”
And through that pulse, the truth is shown.

It rises not for lust alone,
But when the daemon claims her throne.
A temple pillar, fierce and true,
That aches for things you never knew.

So let it point, as compass bright,
Toward my **** of endless night.
Your mind may stall, your tongue may stall—
But your ****?
It knows it all.