Cellophane Wrapped Rendition

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. Divorce Lawyers. Death penalties. Lovers triangle. Break it off and the bad luck is done. After all, 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.