Fawn that she was, that was her name.
I desire t remember in a very horrible way:
Were he a germ, a very giant germ (especially th well-read kind
familiar with Psychology even, Nietzsche even,
well-dressed for work, over-dressed in fact,)
he would have rightly belonged imself
to be stepping along her two chests,
flat on top, rubbing against th' torso,
hike up into the caves of the nostrils.
But he was a man, "I am a decent man!" the sexual man proclaims,
after he enjoys himself all over th' pillow
and even on the window glass.
"oh boy, I am a naked convict! i am a fly between th boobs"
gonna get two lines between the eyes upon his