Oh, it is awfully high from up here –
a power surge, the slit of my skirt intentionally ripped
and yet no one wants the slightest peek.
The man I love must be entwined in the pleats
or is watching the carnival children with more interest
than he has in creating normal infants with me.
Am I not a woman, not fertile?
But my concern is for a bloodied male –
intestines escaping from an abdomen like his coins.
He has been robbed as I have, an empty wallet
while I have an uninhibited ****.
We whirl alone on the ferris wheel and want to get ill.
For when the ride halts, I could climb the
parachute and die with that defeated man on the side –
just not quick enough to be wanted like a carnie.
Becoming an atypical sort of sideshow,
write wishes with a ride’s ***** on my arm, a lovenote
leave with someone whose faith in which I restore.
This is somewhat based on The Smiths' song of the same name. I've always thought it told an interesting story and wanted to hear it from another point of view. C: