Who’s Your Mama

I’ll seduce you like F Scott Fitzgerald,
But fuck you like Hemingway,

Your library looks good, hunk, it does,
Looks good, I said I’d leave him my poems

The next time he comes my way.
Then he listens to me breathe, whispers to my ears,

Shell-like, they’re pale from all the moonlight,
Then he cries, and says my legs remind me of his mother,

Then I undercut his lips with a kiss,
Pulled the blankets straight, tucked him in like this,

And stroked his body with my fingertips of fire,
And like his girlfriend shuddered, my legs quivered under him,

Read him Shakespeare and then next, it was Dickens,
Before I got out Seuss and set up a truce,

I spoon fed him, gave him sips of warm milk,
Told him I loved him, and gave his heart a warm cosy with my hands,

And reverberated my touch to radiate through his soul,
And called him my own, with morals of Aesop, and a cock like Oscar Wilde,

Then he stopped gyrating me like the planet’s orb when it’s crossing the Sun,
And left scarlet-faced, clothes on, in a foreskin-pink fluster,

And then I remembered everything, including the fact I was his mother.

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