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.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
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 ;)
As always, enjoy!
DEW
