Please, pardon my candor. It's rare I speak bluntly.
I hardly, if ever, use words such as cunt, see.
I know what one is, and I really don't mind
your usage of it, just like shit, words in kind.
And speaking of shit, please use caution lights - Amber.
A cunt lies adjacent to every gas chamber,
and caution is called for near a cunt's grassy knoll,
lest one disappear in some big black a-hole.
If you find you're confused, and don't know which is which,
whatever you do, don't call your cunt a bitch!
No matter the likeness, or how cute the pup,
such calling has caused cunts to shut the fuck up!
If that should occur, as it were, after then,
you'll probably never see that cunt again!
And those left without, there's no doubt, oft regret
the loss of what was the best cunt they'd had yet!
So, why bring it up at a moment like this?
A cunt can provide many moments of bliss,
and you should at least give your own cunt a kiss,
provided you can get past the smell of the piss.
Of all the odd subjects to come up between us,
I rarely, if ever, discuss my own penis.
Not that I don't like it. In fact, au contraire,
but I do get self-conscious when the likes of you stare
at my mere appendage extended in verse.
Consider the options. This could look much worse.
The point of this joint of mine you're now admiring,
when looked at quite hard, can oft be found retiring,
residing inside that which I've come to know
as home. It's a tome with its own rhythmic flow.
But back to this joint's point regarding my craft,
a rigid core metaphor extends down my shaft
to where you are there reading this pressing message
of light, posted right where your reading such passage
would mean that you'd seen on your screen such as this,
a truth of your youth once concealed with a kiss.
Intercourse can of course mean mere words have been plucked
from midair, while you stare, knowing you've been ... well,