or, Tincture
Well, if you can’t cuss,
What are you left with?
Platitudes, platitudes. . .
Not even a bon to spark the fire.
And so, again her singed saintliness
goes unsmoken
For the plaint’s pitiful damnings
gone unspoken.
Hence, the bile backs and clogs,
The heart useless to transport the vile away,
Niggardly pinches out the filth
Slog by renal slog.
Iodine will not save one
from the piss-rain fallout.
poetastrophy 