Titsalgia

Whipping away
The remains of the dull day.
Sailing away
In a dark grim stern day

Between leather and tits
We’re all lousy, lousy misfits
Misfits and lace
Strike with the soft mace

The mace is in leather
Her skin, like a feather
A feather in blood
A smile like a knot
Flesh starting to rot.

Should she smile? Should she strike?
Why not?

A bientot.