She strumpets all into the nights until
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around her head the build-up's like fetid, gross cheese;
her lewdness makes the earth and sun stand still:
Lord! What miracle it'd be were she just a tease!
Her grinning face I loathe and never miss;
to greet her with a large and phallic pecker
delights her—but I swear to God on this:
that I felt then the extreme need to deck her
at the knowledge of her one-hundred lovers!?
Deceived by her (that wily Lolita!),
I curse then forswear her and flee for cover
vowing henceforth to shun that Medusa.
So with luck and some serendipity,
I abscond her wiles with no STD!
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."