At my door again
Sunday morning
Missionary girl
Sometimes alone
Sometime with an old crone
Clucking behind you
Do you only get to heaven
For people saved
Or do doors slammed in your face
Count?
Your petticoats
Lace collar and parasol
Would look great
In a museum
Underneath them
Your flesh aches for sin
Your eyes look at my feet
As if I could tempt you
Your face tanned from walking
Your body white from hiding
Nipples waiting to be plucked
Like cherry blossoms
Maidenhood waiting to fall
But withering for no vine
No, not with me
No, not with this
Old, fat, foreign
Married man
With a young cock
Of your blood
Who’d make you scream in joy
And believe in god
When heaven flashes through you
Loving isn't sin
Heaven can be here on earth
If you live before you die
But you won’t
The crones hem you in
Cluck and disapprove
Until you become one of them
Another reason why
I shake my head
Sunday mornings
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