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Slammed into abandon,
licks on the wicker
Coy as a pause.
Not a breath below or astride,
no indication of the lost.
Anger of the meet.
Yet suspicion cries when it does:
For you you you you all know.
It's a fucking game.
Raise the tone? Lower the fauly?
No,
more.
Cunts all the lot.
Friendly to the whim and gain