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but your breath is not so thin,
nor is the bridge of cognizance
over which it passes by my glance;
O hiss again, that i may then deduce
the origin of such a wavery grin.

in infancy you wailed;
and they welled so well,
those wellsprings of Salvation
Army pails now merely slits
that split your countenance,

they spite your mirror,
functioning as faulty fog machines
which disconnect you ever lesser
from your clumsy, quasi-catbird
dance of death; a decomposing

pantomimicry composite busting
loose of near Houdiniic pretense.
such failure to impress
undoes you with distress,
further undressing each caress

your lovely lips attempt to blow
by way of purple paisley kiss,
as if such labialization were a simple
game of Chess wherein your tainted
tongue plays en passant with Yes.

i know that hiss, that sigh of sex,
that hustled horny husband's hex; i saw it once
when i was but a bony boner-popping putz,
and 'twas no easy task to weep away the husk
of innocence Confess! you are

no proper princess
to molest.