LIKE MUSIC TO MY SCHLONG

B. McGILLICUDDY

Okay, now put the titular title pun out of your mind, please, because this is actually going to be pretty pretty. And it is dedicated to my muse.

Dear Sugardoll, for that is what I call you, oh gorgeous ghoul of golden waves, you fucking ruin me. My heart's a ball in some cuntish sport you play. And yet you make it better when your mood turns and food burns before you serve me, bed and tray. Wait. What is this disposition I have against submitting to your nary an inquisition. You ask in silent analogy to make me make you FEEL a fleeting thing, but I, a guy, cannot read the mind, and it's for geese that I'm a-fishing. Sigh. Laugh. I cry, again, unlike your sturdy, stony way. Oh acid to my ears, when will this trippy song away? I haven't said I love you, this kissing time and sound. Because I figured that this Tigger better bounce in it around, in rhyme.

CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. SHE CALLS AGAIN, "I HAVE YOUR SOUL RIGHT HERE!" She yells some million steps away. But I've found my soul. A better one, I think. In a goofy yelling fit of itty-bitty-committee-tits, and sorrow for tomorrow with such witty, witty wit, and with such blatant bulls of shit, and this "make-you-happy" kit. Steps one through fifteen all say (and read them carefully, y'all), do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go. So fuck me and my swarthy sword with your sheath with please, no teeth in it. That old soul's gone, from bud to bong, and I smoked the left over kief in it.

Angles have you none, though, bursting, brilliant one, you've cut me, s-l-ot, thee. And no, I've never thought I won.

B. McGILLICUDDY