I tell you, my Ponticus, it is dumb to be a cad.  The arms buy

   and the Triste militant fraternity,

the cat, it seems easy, the contender being Homer

   (sent to us fat, with Molly, singing on a bus),

no's are the consensus.  Three no's and agitation are our love.

   The cat is durably liquid and must sing at home, not in the choir.

You're very ingenious when you're sure to be in money.

   You are temporarily understanding and attentive when questioned.

My hiccups contour my mode of life, make my fame what it is.

   Since I'm in love no men sing about my anger.

My laundry is my only doctrine, play with me woman.

   Ponticus!  In you and I will always stay my nasty tulips.

My leg as is due at and after you neglect to love me

   and prose isn't to be understood (even a little) by males.

You choke on air as if certain the boy can curse (Arc you!).

   (But, no lime, no beer and you, you lease God!)

How I've longed to castrate you, longed to separate your mind from agriculture.

   Flea bites and I turn.  Don't assert.  You sit, I care

and frustrated doll Moll (and me) we accompany all of you.

   We neck to be subservient.  My car is my serious love.

I'm not humility and I don't see why you always bury potatoes.

   Your Roman ego prefers to be ingenious.  Rose Anne Raphael

is your cue and our you.  She sings fast and with contempt

   always magnifying the finer, tardo points of love when it

is not a small poem.  When are you and I to make clear our sepulchral

   love?  Our poetry is great and you are aces.

To poem, Eighth

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