a giant inflamed mushroom,
swollen and offensive,
or the greasy insides of a pumpkin,
the guts, sticky orange stuck
to walls of fleshy white.
Her vagina will never smell like
wet-sweet earth, no,
because it has large protrusions,
little heads peeking,
millions of mouths gabbing,
dribbling their pus.
Her vagina reeks like
bottom of dead foot,
a rotting, rotting,
old and haggard piece.
Fatty-fat, it still talks.
It tries to force open
from its swell,
that willing thing.
It puffs up, irritated
to scratch me like a rope
and berate my smooth.
Oh,
femme-monster,
I tell you, leave,
leave my hawk-eyes!
Leave me, leave me,
for you have turned stupid
and inconsolable.
No more of your stiff scratch,
I want the silk-silky majesty of your leave,
you awful tack!
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