With the cranky Muse
it is wise not to dicker. O, she likes her sweets, but ‘liquor is quicker.’ Better yet, she likes it when you lick her. For that there still might be the reward of one cloven tongue aflicker.
So sanctified,
other tongues may come; “Yabba-dabba-doo”, the purified utter, “Do me now, my ass is all hot and buttered.” The holy ghost, ever looking for an easy lay, is more than happy to oblige the laiety
The upper-room
is filled with tension — and by the way, was it mentioned that such devotion breeds jumpin’ britches and knickers adrippin’? So some do dance St. Vitus style, jiggin’ in the aisle, while others fall upon their knees with beatific smile.
The muse don’t care
how the shit gets done. Sex to her is just a mortal necessity. By sinner or saint it’s all the same. The satisfaction she craves is a thing that only cums at the end of a long velleity where the ink will out.
poetastrophy 