I was appreciating your bares, the rumples of tummy
so crumby, take a shower, You. However did we
position our predicate to have bottles?
However we did it, they were filled, not by us,
and subject to measures. Decanted, yet swilled...print turned wild...
I'm just sashaying it.
Sometimes the script was so elaborate,
the first letter of each page lifted from the Book of Quells,
From the Wot, the Hell, hogging the left quadrant
putting the scripture at a disadvantage. You hate that. It's your fault.
And then you were bare again, and again,
laughingly selling yourself, spots and flops,
skin tags at discount, puffing out peanut-breaths from wine-stained lips.
I'm just playing wit'cha. There was no August sale, we're not planners.
Pushing the words with the croupier's tool,
you slid past the thoughts, just knocking the carefully racked case of bottles.