To love is for words writ to do -
but they only care
of what you can do for them
for they love not,
but to exploit the emotions.
For the bleeding hearts cafe
is only for dinner
to there eat the soul and spirit
which they so lack
to fill out the blank slate.
Ah! as their fangs bite into
our arteristeries
for the vines for nourishment
is in our blood
to fill wyrds with the unknowns.
For but a taste of our gastronomie
in poesie to conceal,
are they in the chants caught
for the pulsating beat
like a dick into a cunt ejacts -
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