hurricanes can’t survive where northern boys rule, it is just a national geographic magazine truth, everybody knows the slow frenetic taking is a compromise, my tongue parachutes inside the dome and the soft down comforter is on the floor in the hotel room with a view of fifth avenue and central park and the occasional glance outside, a landing zone for the V-day parapoets
room service delivers in god’s love we trust. i teach you my mastery and you laugh texas blonde shotgun size
is that the best you got and I laugh cause we don’t got hurricanes in manhattan unless they are man made and the shower handle won’t turn us off
in what time zone is it am4:29 and you feed me verses like long legged spaghetti lines, and i say too fast too fast and you say too bad too bad northern boy that how texas blondes shotgun size write poems
Percy owned a big sword as tall as him and sharp as Hell It was big and black and perfectly crafted Just like something else closer to home Forged in the depths of Hell by the best artisans Now Percy owned the sword and he was boss King of the block who nobody ****** with He chopped off heads left and right And lopped off ***** front and back He gave neighbourhood defence a new meaning His sword provided safety to all his buddies Nobody sold drugs or stole cars After meeting Percy and his tool There was something about it It was the length and blackness of it Two attributes associated with something else For even a BBC was limited in power and ****** When compared to Satan's own sword Now in the care of humble Percy Or was it the other way round? Sword and man as one...