by Nick Gisburne
I pay a pretty penny, just to see
Perversions born beyond the universe.
Expecting beasts more blasphemous than me,
Discovery delivers something worse.
Two pinnacles of passion share a wig,
And cardigans, obscene, unshapely, warm.
Their genitals, inordinately big,
Are far too limp and lazy to perform.
Bare bodies, brushed with butter on the bed,
Seen slithering in slinky rubber suits,
Resemble boiled bananas, dumpy, dead,
Cavorting in uncomfortable boots.
To humans, sleek and sexy they are not,
But, in my beady, insect eyes, they’re hot.
