You loved your jokes — “You feeling Mary? Yes,
she begged us not to stop.” “Grace cums. How? Hard.”
— like you loved blunts, cunts, a cumslut’s caress.
Strange girls and their moo juice was your reward.
Mothers’ udders dribbled drops. You wisecracked
that spoiled clits were mere child’s play to seduce
once you put your tongue to sloppy use. “Stacked
shorty,” you stressed. “Vicious licious.” Your juice,
with a snap, boils over. It’s in the laugh.
Suppose one day this ends? Without a bang
but a whisper? You will still have my lisp,
my snort, my rough chuckle. My better half.
All I wasn’t. With blunts and cunts. Girl gang
banger. Gone in laugh. Not with twang but wisp.