the gigglin' juice box of my discontent

.

.

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oh whore of Akron!

Why must you taunt me with yer low angle sugar

I could pop balloon animals all Sunday afternoons

and smash untold platters of overcooked pot roast

at the Johnson's

I would fill thousands of expensive Faux leather notebooks

with dirty lil hisses and smacks

upon the roaring, gin gimlet filled mouth of the gods

I should roll and curl the universe its very self

into your jigglin' gigglin' interwoven sprung ass!

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