When she speaks smoke wheezes between her rocky lips
And her voice is crummy gravel pavement
Her gut balances on her hips
Protruding into a bulbous cap puckering into a navel
Filled to capacity with some slimy IT
Created by ***** and a moment's attraction
She croons to her abdomen
Pebbles falling from her mouth
Bouncing off her skin and hitting IT's ears
As a mushy echo
Years of rolled burning paper cause her to droop
She drags like a curtain
Smells like a motel room
And loves IT
Because she can
Because she will
Because she must
As wolves howl to the moon she must
And when she cries out in the wee hours
And someone places a wooden spoon between her teeth
Her crusty screams will be IT's awakening