Fin
They've allotted me three kings...
All with equal amounts of endearment
Offered to me on a baited line
With trembling sticky fingers.
It is all but impossible for me to write of
The fortitude's of each of them.
Or of how they slithered about
Simultaneously through the whetted night
Committing treachery against my mother,
Every one of them, obliviously.
Of how they stretched and skewed
The sentiments of my chambers,
My bellows.
Beseeching me,
Come swallow...
Drink in the nectars,
The sans pareil of sweet.
Come thrush...
With quick and jaunty flight.
Beating in the night with hots
Of red and white.
Come quick albatross...
Fast to my body
With your obliterating bite.
Waning away,
Your five fingered blight.
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