Chances Are / Grady Thrasher


She was a bleeding pile of style,
a toxic dump of torment,
a stone face without a smile
that only knew what war meant.

A raging sandstorm of ill will
defined her countenance.
I try, but can’t remember still,
why I wanted in her pants.

Like a praying mantis female,
with lovers in her beds,
in foreplay they could not foretell,
she’d be biting off their heads.

Fortunately, I got a view
of what life with her portends,
when she farted “I’ll Be Seeing You”
in staccato broken winds.

As impressive as that might have been,
I knew something was amiss,
when she’d hock a luger, large and green,
each time we shared a kiss.

I had hoped that porno site was art,
but when senses I regained,
it only meant her private parts
were in the public domain.

So here’s to those missed chances,
sometimes you’ll find you win
if in pursuit of some romances,
desire peters out before lust peters in.







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