Cotton-floss hair I bare my make-upsheen
In a drunken stare I have no blemish, I enjoy the fare,
I’ll come again, I’ll come again,
I like it here, on your shoulder your rot-black shoulder
And a mild rumbling snoring through your chest. Hair,
Cotton-floss hair I bare my make-upsheen
To the rain and the wind on the street
I contort over roads with a clip-clop stride.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment