Whorses.

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.

His mouth.

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.

Her mouth.

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 mouths.

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.

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