Monday, September 12, 2005

The King Dong in My Pants (apologies to Wallace Stevens)

Call the roller of this cigar,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
On bathroom tiles concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches model such undress
As they are used to wear, and let his mate
Bring cherries in last year’s magazines.
Let fate take tuition from chance.
The only King Dong is the one in my pants.

Take from the journal of June
Priced at nine round bucks that sheet
On which I’ve emblazoned Rorschachs thrice
And spread it to showcase her ass.
If her horny eyes obtrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the dancer be the dance.
The only King Dong is the one in my pants.

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