Blustery Bore

She turns to me

With her chin:

The wind is a blustery bore

A gluttonous happily whore

She will swallow your poem galore

And leave you pantingly for more

Then she unbuttons

With her muffins:

A biscuit for buttered Brahmin

Jelly and fish for the common

Switch on the BBC straw man

And love how she cunts her Ramen

And then she tries

The old dog:

Boofing beefsteak cold winter’s night

Yelping paws the hairy old fright

Curried cur in the last fire light

I loved her once, but then the bite

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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