O HOSTESS TEAI can not tell youWhat a vagina is like,Only that mostAre varieties of pinkThat make me salivateMimetically, and thenLike them, unableTo think. MeanwhileThe savage atrophyOf your wolf-girl’sLower jaw and herFetching overbiteAssuredly come from Thucking on her paw,Which causes in a feral Feme an irremediably Thoft medial palate, a lithpOr vaginal metonymy,But whatever you do, O Hostess Tea,Don't confuse me with Alfred Lawn Tennyson and ilk.Vide Infra:I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red edges,The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers, 'Death'."Maud"The old boy was deaf and owned most of the Isle of Wight, which he wandered with a blackthorn shilelagh hunting trespassers and trailed by servants in the pay of his weary sons with money to quiet the outrage of birdwatchers, anglers, earnest nudists and amorous picnickers, Tennyson discovered and wildly abused, thenwent home and composed torturous slant rhymes.
They don't think, he says! My mother balanced equations with hers, and I use mine to remember the average rainfall in the Amazon Basin.
MOIREWho’d dream of calling A vixen dumb,But does she know,Except vaguely,Where her pee Comes from, Or if Sally RandBehind feathersShe wove into fans,Wore a flesh-tintedSock, or dancedSleek and nakedAnd offered to errorAn ocular chance,Black hair in bright Sun with its pale onionSheen, or burnt ginger And the brush of a fox.
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