Boof (The Blacked Out Poems #5)

What am I supposed to do
with your groovy fucking ass?
God, I wanna boof you, girl.
And what about you,
Delicioso girl?
Weeth your perfect fucking face,
fer Chrissake.
It’s unreal how you do.
I’d prolly boof you too.
Gimme the chance,
the opportubadibly
and I’ll make sweet sex,
whiskey boner style,
like William Fucking Tell
with the motherfucking Beats.
It repeats, it fucking repeats,
gottdamn, what a trip.
Enjoy the fooking merry-go-round.
Fooking poetry,
like dildoes.
Like dildoes poetry.
Enjoy my meringue
and my chocolate covered goldfish
machine.
Is that what we call
mother poetry?
Father poetry?
Brother poetry?
No, there’s nothing quite like it,
you mother,
you fucker,
you fucking poetry.
I’ll make love to your spouse
because she is open
and what a pretty face,
a married face.
Every face like that is betrothed.
I may never know
betrothed.
Is okay though.
Good fucking chocolate milk,
betrothed?

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