Selaphora you sing like your mother
wide eyed, open mouth’d a lover
sucking, without words, a bottomless
horn of perverse plenty but you, you
would rather flirt the hunger of wyrms
wipe dragons blood like vermouth
from cheek or thigh, jeer ghasts while taking turns
to grope the harpies teat, scorceled by songs
of heroism? You? Heir to bitches’ whore?
She’d as soon pull an enchanted bung
to stop her vent as bind children’s sores.
But you, Selaphor, the light to her dark
square same to hit very different marks.
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