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Murmur that tells of April high in sweet
air the wind skirt blows, the brass weathercocks
all point south twirl a penny will buy her
violets and that makes you my own pervert.
Walk with me. Let the wind blow your short skirt
higher. Between her thighs she’s bald, smoother
than the moon. Gypsy moon. You want her “Box
Called Sin.” Your swampy parts. I want where heat
lightning always strikes. She belongs to no
one. Not the Bang Brothers. Not the nightlong
night. Still, you want. We lay on a ghetto
roof top. You pull off your top, pull your thong
to one side. You can cum when you’re can’t stop.
What else is there here on the roof top?