Old nincompoops of society, I abide daily.
Riding on coattails they scream foul.
They don't ascertain sobriety of my sayings
Given their proclivities of animation
And dissertations of my behavior.
Darkness I profess, Gothic lust turning to dust.
Creation of desires on the cusp of written pages.
Eerily spirits go; the aura of dawn's mist,
Poetically rambling the flesh with my kiss.
Glossing over semicolons and punctuations.
Modest I be, in my Savannah ivy steeple,
Chattering with mites and wooden people.
Erotically misbehaving on wine from the vines,
Seductions of the mortal environment I define.
My quill, sweeping over old parchment and must.
Scratching testicles, my rocks of blue hue
As titmice scatter about in my olden tower.
My cock slinging cum as if a catapult on swill.
Masturbation of the soul, I prose penis eruption,
Yarning tales of darkness in my darkly fashion.
I, the nuisance of public opinion speaks,
Like old dinosaurs wearing decrepit running shoes,
They whisper their indigestion of sensuality.
Screaming fornicators as I grin,
Crooning old nincompoop love songs.
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