So you fled to her nest on this stork,
history shed, having never grown your horns.
A present sent to her of a newborn...
So baby, tell me then, when you take in her breasts,
are you suckling to be fed?
Is it just her womb you bed?
Well, have some more...

And how you always burned, for the slight;
spurned at first, you couldn't let it die!
You'd nurse your bruises: why, the nerve of me, to lie
in reserve while I had to learn to find
all the points you had! Then you'd resent
plunders past that forced my defence...
But dear, let's make a pact: if you're single then,
I get you back? And...

I'll be stronger--not a bother, more modest, I promise--
to parent my knight-errant as the sole keeper of his sheep herd.
And when sobered by the time-lapse to spring forward on a fallback...
my ticklish piglet, you'll bounce back to me, giggly, having fully gorged yourself.
Bursting belly told by extra holes punched in your belt.

A shank's dustless silhouette bares the sill's sheen,
your severed stinger left in me never lost its sting.
But other nights you'd lap my wound clean
to leave me as before, with only instinct to adore.
Besides, a you-shaped pussing sore
bleeds just once, then never more...
So are we agreed, honeybee? Come for me? At thirty-three?

You say you woke one crystal morning, to find all those thoughts had gone away:
your fear of death, your fear of never dying, and sadness for what it was.
You just knew Bobtail's your priority, so for Bobtail I'll gladly wait.
And darling, don't you worry, these were only practise cuts...

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