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About This Poem
The Stud Syndrome
Passion piles on deeds done in heat,
yet not to defeat the sounds ever so
discreet of a wanna be who abounds
of indiscretion. He smirks and smiles
and twirls that lonely hanging curl,
deep within squalid contemplation,
He thinks about last night and of
her begging him to stay. Unreal !
Out loud he laughs at the implication.
Gees, they get dumber every day.
Those Izzy Pop, geek on geek, fresh
nature freaks, needing absolution.
High above the clouds of discontent,
he sits, heaven sent, in motley aura
A condition otherwise known as Meglamania
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