Luminescence breeds in your finest moments of desperation, A Latvian in pain could not attain your Gibraltar-mending squeals, Woods nymphs sprinkle your path with bowling balls while you dance and prowl in the sequined moonlight with leftover heads of lettuce.
Entranced by the bitter harmony of your lips, I gaze beyond reason to find the oasis of your ruptured soul, You are as orange as a congealment afro curled around the bony edges of a silver spoon expressing its innermost desires for a lime-based detergent.
My pathological scar desires to cite poetry through the ruddier girth of your soul! Madame, your implement is admonishing me! I say.
Your presence reminds one of a blind jackal, eternally dependent upon misguided archbishops to provide instruction in bowling, You are as effective as a linear geometry based upon the Maginot Line, Your face is like an imperfectly shaven tennis ball, Such meals that you cook! Certainly your kitchen is overrun with pestilence and vermin!
In your presence even my shadow acquires the sensation of touch.