They sneer at the holes
we left in their stockings
and cringe at the thought
of lilies we picked
then wonder why pseudocide
seems like the option
that best fits the likes
of lustful old pricks
who won't put it down
but can't keep it up
for fear that the naming of names
will prolong
the alibi's epilogue
the salts' lonely song
that's hummed in their quarters
aboard moon-drawn ships.
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