Come, Sit On My Deck.

Get off my diet, whoa
woman or you shan't find
the Secret of "Greek 
Fire," long eyewashed
way the hell off and on,
starboard, port wine, hell.
Overboard with the very
last historical drop of True
Greek Seaman's Shit was 

quite lost! On the way to 
warship or some horse
prank full of Greek odds.
Naturally, some primordial
Hades: The "Just Styx If!"

A strip club established 
exclusively by one odd
and gentle kind man, for
the pubic humiliation of

No. Not the ladies, man!
Nor any woman, still less
a girl but Man! Man Itself!
Incarnate, personified. True 
Blue Mean Men All! And 

so sorry, then, but
if than then OK 
by all, ain't you? 

NO! NEVER to have
to inform
to be made
odds on your pretty, little 
thin white! But uh 
uh

ERR ERR 

I have half a raw, rude,
hewn confession, ass! For Lo!
I am that selfsame slimewish!
The only living and spiritual (gin) 
descendent of those decadent 
long-lasting dentures of your'n. 
That same self ever-loining clothes  
horse (hobby jobber for sure and,
dear) you strut nude, these days.

And so alone. You buttered your
sheets of mustard well, she-cur. Brunch? 
But off-course, naturally. Sure? Why die
when you can learn to swim instantaneously
with wolves, these days. I would always
love you then, had you only held up your
own end in my face a wee tad touchingly
less. With You,

You saw
I see. See not light, but as by I, eye, aye 
ma Capitain! Elle ne see say pas de pot! 
Bouvoulez-toi le BATH? WHY? 

You will see, I don't presume 
to tell that's your business. Unless,
off course, you'd allow me the pleasure
of just the tip?

Please! 

Let me put it in. RIGHT! 
UNDER! YOUR! JOHNNY 
CASH CROONED Bill! George,
any
thing 
but plus, Sue. Rue? 

Nah, she's passed on that. We go
ruthlessly forth, without Annette
or never again shall you see what
we saw.

Fair.

Sure. So sue yourself,
girl. Oh, I don't apologize
for what you told me 

yourself was true at all, now 
woman. "We don't have

a real relationship." True. Over it,
then. "You and I both knew it would 
never work" ("out" was assumed, you 
knew then, and I know now. Just
finding out as I go, you know) 

So: above? Below? Not I. Nevermore
you might crow or sprout a new pinion
between your ever more webbed hands,
but groan if you must! Pout and push! 

Put it down nightly, as you like.  
but 
Gojira still finds sighs
for the whale. 

Kill it. 

It was dead before we ever 
even met, then. Now. 

Shall we have danced? 

Your turn.