Untitled whizbang doodad

          For the ladeez of Flarflist

As a poet, my disco is raging.
I felt all kind of tiny inside
reading your letter, like my brain
was too tight or as if
your decadent scent (like facial skin)
faded too quickly from the night air.
Dear I'll never forget how you
stared with that spangled string
of morning-hump drool down dangling
just below your plump
Smurfette's snatch tattoo,
an utter delight to my menses,
a paramour befitting Buck Owens.