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 some 2,000 years
—but boy, is she still hot…

I’m a sicko
to get all worked up
over a translation.
Fleur, you’re cruel!

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