56-year-old women are blast furnaces
they can never wear wool again
so I've been instructed
so I won't make a coarse remark again
oh you can never understand!
that's right...empathy won't do...
you burn in a hot flash as if
it were vindication of your crone-hood
oh such demands our minus sides make
that pluses seek the randy comradeship
of gangily pigeon toed obasiance
to the fresh sweet power of a sister-sweat
and touch on skin smooth
as leather on the seat
oh we menses will our crude git-er-done power surges
lost awkward and rattled in reflection
considering the invisible chain
that binds us to her wrist
rule by divine right of cunt
and we asswipes with pubs dangling
rage in our subjugation
and wimper on the comfortable breast...
and at 56...oh MOM...lay it out
your daughters have yet to learn
and so do their dumb young stags
the nonsense never ends...the sideshow
or hotel room or quiet mounted bed
has been known to douse many fires...(you figure how...)
Content (c) 2008-2012 Philip Milito. All rights reserved.