Make No Pompomish Bones About It



Between a Gourd and her Skeleton

In the balmy evening air they sat
he, on the bones of his arse
she in her tumescent russet glory

Lots of whispering about that
their pageant an effervescent farce
(Everyone believes his own story)

It is an indisputable fact
that gossip gives buzz to passing cars
and not everything is only hunky-dory

But between her (the gourd) and her cat
the black sky, the moon and the stars
truth was kind of compulsory

You see, she was not just fat
with alien seed from Mars
and he was not just sorry

Only three days left

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