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Flip the Bird was a bird, from Leeds, no less
and since it was the 80s – a junkie,

to boot. Junk is droll, you’d said of the mess,
when I finally pressed, your panties barely

hiding that odd smirk. Not the worst tattoo
that I’ve had to stare down while staring down

inside someone. “Perv much?” in faded blue
ink gave me pause. Once. Sex with the class clown

tends to be desperate: all your pussy-fart
jokes, that eyesore, Flip, your constant reference

to our age difference. I get it. Life sucks
for the misdid kids. I’m not smart. My heart

means well, but I remain a perv, class dunce.
All I have is mercy and messy fucks.