Dark hair, blue eyes? Faery’s child. Reddish hair?

Faery’s child. Skin *not* pale-slush as weak tea?

Faery’s child. Female? Faery’s child. Out there,

in Dead Poet Land (which remains what? Thirty

musty upper-class twits?) anyone keen

on France and hygiene was a Faery’s child.

Odd just how the sexually-repressed queen

failed to make the list. Evolved? Fae. Reviled?

Fae-Fae. Unchaste? Yo, baby pop! “Elfin

grot”? Got ya, “lips in the gloam,” right here, boo!

I write wrong? I right wrong; it’s a Fae-as-Fuck-

thang, you wouldn’t understand. My skin twin.

My twink. My Other. Cocks chaos. You who

grew from duckweed. The one Keats named Amok.