Marching to the beat of the oldest and simplest trick in the Book.
By the Gods, the Chestnuts of the Prosaisms,
Rationality, and Opinions of the Day, women
resolutely swear and firmly justify themselves
as they bear, brew, and carry tightlipped storms
and dark hearts inside their pointed chests
that ache so bad for any hint or likeness
of that great original contraption—Devil’s
own masterful device of “Anything but this”
and “You shall not”—from that old randy
Gardener who filled with ideas and words
from tops to bottoms many pious flocks,
thus, initiating and casting them headfirst
into the arcana of the blackmost magic—
the tongue that takes its warmth from life.
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