Edge Of Wickets
On edge of Wickets, near the village of Sorrows,
My Victorian manse stands in thickets and thorns.
Surrounded by bogs of chilling muck,
Swamps bubbling darkening stuff.
Beyond Savannah town of vines and ivy,
On trellises of soft silk grow,
Phantoms of the quaintness of my abode.
The flesh, I wallow many days ago.
Gated of iron and steel, behind closed doors,
Habitation of eerie dwellers of my cellars deep,
Dining on swill and oaths, craving sex.
I fill my inebriation with erotic revelations.
Scent of musk on catacomb stones,
Of things rendered, hungering the fest,
Raising the shrill of the penis trumpet.
Swashing into 'morrow's dawn.
Masturbating, hour of the shadows,
With prose of fornication's drippings,
My cock quivers, throbbing of my beast.
Slinging my cum poetically.
Curses of mortals, I do throttle,
Relieving myself of their snake piss.
Gift of the Sandman, near Sorrows, I hiss,
For they know not my inclinations.
In Valedictorian, I close chapters of sensuality,
Bequeathing my cock and squawking bird.
Day's awakening, lost paragraphs,
In my nakedness, I be humble.
My muse, the cuckoo of Wickets...it roost,
On hour of the tick it tocks it's cuckoo,
As I compose, dictated by the fowl.
Oh, cock of the perch, it lurch.
Thirst quench, shallows of my cupped rum,
With shunt of the quill, precum spilling,
Ink dripping ambrosia of the cunt.
Roosting on the clit, the cuckoo sits.
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