A little Thursday fun in the form of a poem.
I had “sexual healing” by marvin gaye running loose in my mind,
and as I voiced the words, my tongue slipped, and instead of sexual, the word pestual
came out from nowhere, and the rest is now history…
The Death of Pestual Reproduction
He, not being in
The mood,
As the sun set;
And she, being what
She was,
Hungry for him;
No chill wind
To keep her at bay;
She nibbled.
Until she found the one spot, and struck;
Inserting herself in him.
And he, annoyed,
And unlike him,
Swatted back,
Striking her.
Their blood mixed;
His, only a drop;
But all of hers, and her,
Was over his.
Randy Mazie
The Writer's Village 