Submit my amateur thirst
For urban slaves
With nothing else on my mind
But food for the plague.
It's not the armed that harm the harmless
But this honeyed tongued prince
With his hands on his head.
Damn those blaspheming template lovers
Wrought of inbreed prostitution and
Finger licking good tax rendition.
Break it off and the bad luck is done.
I assume it was my mother who used to say,
Filthy luck spawns from a filthy conscience.
Filthy she'd say.
As if filthy were just the word for it.
As if it justified a thought or place.
But I don't need justification.
I just need these two diverged in one.
Urban sex crossed lovers,
Plague eating rotten toothed librarians
Hungry from another long day at work.