What Could Makes Me Happy

What Could Makes Me Happy I have tarpaulin over my shame, And instead of photographing un-wiped yarns I will continue to climb the ladder of laughter In case the eczema of fame spread abroad. What Could Make Me Happy If feverish joy could always splutter and flourish, As often as eruption in one's crotch Wet naughty naked tongue under the ruby flesh, Then cemetery should be the death of belly dancing, What Could Make Me Happy A sex deranged Cliffordian orgy? Trapped a pussy into his sacred slaughter slab Dose her and embarrassed her hourly until lunar, Dropping cold icicle of blooded lips The severed corpse puke and raised the peace flag, What Could Make Me Happy In the cathedral of want, With hiccoughing economy; dry hacking until comatose The years of locusts go on like a long pronunciation, Everyone is weighed down by portmanteau of problems, And essential needs trickles in form of an anecdote.