mister scutty.
buns.
mine eyes take to sea
draped in black damask
ask, upon what merit
to what do i owe
thy fine mask of sinew
in shadowed remorse
i lay vexed
exquisite.
a freedom formed
born of toilsome task
such winsome,
this ass
grasping in folly
i falter, forlorn
this finest of fannies
far more than fixed eye
could e’er hold candle to
sand doth sift
and so shifts time
o buns of golden mote
i dote on this fire
to hold what is naught
but a phantom fandango
so taut with transgressions
in visions foretold
foreboding alabaster sheath
aglow
no, asunder
plundering depths
taste tears of sallowed vitae
were strength as a flower
this truth, seed and all
should fall as the hour
when tower doth beckon
thy buns!
thy buns!
o scutty!
skyward flesh effused
obfuscated realms of sordid sanctity
below is a shifting
uplift yea!
uplifting
muted trepidation
threat or compliance
lo, golden buns of stardust waver
o scutty!
buns that scintillate liquescent
‘neath the moonlight’s tremble
in cries of haute
wielding scepter



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