Good Lad

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday and the words were warranted on through – she threw me a bone

Her listening earpiece pressed sordidly against – a gaining-in-distrust little lady

With a mind upon utter discomfort and chaotic misbehavings
When he took his place at the pantheon of screams – sexual yet promiscuously real at being an eager eye-sore

Weren’t all of the best ones always behaving that way?
Especially when she places her butt-cheeks near his freckled face

She winds herself on up and finds herself suitably attired to fire from the prolapsed hip – this hidden ventriloquist will twist her far-reaching fingers inside of his unsuspecting mind and soul

Proposes to suppose…
These g-o-a-l-s of hers and not too much of them about to be mine anymore – kept at deadlocked mind and finds a way, one such pre-strained way
To catch his tongue and twist it til fallen upon the crawling floor – she is good fun with a handgun even if  it is he who holds all of the bullets about to be riddled n’ rifled within this agonised sinner

Of forever cherishing his – to feel abused is to feel real.

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