Popeye's Gal
Not what you’re used to, am I
A far cry from the wild and wooly gals
a horrified vestigial virgin ravaged by time am I.
Not what you’re used to.
Am I?
Not what you’d ever thought could exist
in a package so mixed
of pink metal nails and kittens tails.
Not what you’re used to, am I.
A cosmic leap into the proximity of dichotomy
The Yin hole in the Yang’s sperm like shape.
Am I the beginning to your end?
Not what you’re used to
I am.
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