Mrs. Smith’s man was no fisherman by hobby,
more a horse of nature,
in the blood that led to his cock,
soft and grey on the slab.
That rubber lipped mouth.
He never brushed those Big Ed teeth.
At least she got paid for that
dubious honour of kissing him.
This stallion sat in his boat
and was hooked by a mutual bait.
It came in the form of a pariah piranha,
Hall and Oates knew what they were singing about.
He died on the flesh
of one already dead.
That blood red mouth.
She sucked the life out of him
and spat the bones into the sea.
Shergar, the enigma of his kind,
the kind who disappears without trace,
leaving an empty taste,
like that of a question mark on the tongue.
Those dirty, lustful mouths.
Mr. Smith’s track ran to the whores entrance
which opened up into Hades Sea.
This horses hobby was whores.
He will fuck forever, never more.