Core of pus, corpulent ego, tired corpuscles,
I sit on my high stool and prop my muscles.
I'm tired of versing, initiating tussles.
Black-garbed Greek women with pimento eyes turn
On faltering stone steps, and beckon as I burn
In decades of pent-up lust. From them I may learn
That flowery insincere abstract nouns were laughed at
By women with high libidos wearing funky hats,
Who only used my words as paper for seven shats.
Toughen up, caring one, let's go and wipe the tears
From dam-burst ducts over unimagined fucks, strong beer
I'll start with to allay my published nasty fears.
Bird of omen soaring free and circling far across,
Are you my friend, a corrective for constant loss?
Hail! It glides closer -- aaak! A fat albatross!