The world is a whistling place
when your skirt's up
a sharp glint
in a fallen park
when you're alone
but you're a cat
more fur than muscled bone
winding round the world's poles
begging to be owned.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
The world is a whistling place
when your skirt's up
a sharp glint
in a fallen park
when you're alone
but you're a cat
more fur than muscled bone
winding round the world's poles
begging to be owned.