An Aristocratic Scalding
Just bind his hands and scald the infant,
oh that histrionic shrieking?
It’s just the steam leaving.
Have you no saltines for the brain?
What tasty swimmerets!
I said clean up boy,
his skull is still spewing
that nefarious discharge upon her linen
and it’s already half past nine
Have you no butter for antennules?
spatters of whiskey and
sperm receptacles dot the beards and
vilify the entre-doux
upon which was served the feast
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