Poetry

Oh sweet Lysidice

I’m a deviant, 
I lust for Lysidice
and her see-through muslin dress
revealing her star-blessed tits,
her earth-kissed mound—
oh sacred triangle!

I kneel to pray
but there’s nothing there,
only the pages 
of an anthology of Greek poetry
open wide on my desk.

Lysidice has been gone
for 2,000 years — but boy
she’s still hot…

I’m a sicko
to get all worked up
over a translation.

Fleur, you’re cruel!

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