You know, dear wifey, my mistress wasn’t
solid enough to resist the withering,
the beauteous appearance as well as an illness
that was getting worse but a fairly conspicuous
boil on her thigh. Her charming lovers, including
me were now replaced by a toothless but still
vigorous enough gypsy who sang sorrowful
songs to her and he found her an adorable girl
as she herself said with a gentle, incredulous
and dreamy tremor of her head. She considered
the gypsy to be a dear, ultra-oriental doctor
with long and mild, musical fingers that could
analyse her nocturnal dreams of erotic torment
in so-called major and minor tones with red
intensification as she remembered the way
her mom and dad did in her years prior to puberty
humming a monotonous melody and charming
her somehow enveloping her, as it were, in a gooey
and invisible substance that entered through her
nostrils very pungent and arousing getting closer
and closer to her cervix no matter what sex position
she could shift she felt him odorant and intrusive.
I also punished her, she was a whore, but what
a whore when she let you enter what she had
more valuable, I know you are jealous of her.
She wants you to also have sex with her,
so that she may teach you how to be happy
applying some techniques from the Middle Ages
with the help of a resistant toad, it can survive
hundreds of years without water and food
and when it rains it suddenly revives, I know
you’re going to love me even more after that
and you’ll be grateful to me, you’ll be proud of me.
You, slut! You’ll come to your senses, too.
Don’t let me still hear that perverted mouth
of yours speaking of divorce. I feel like springing
on you but I’m far away.
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