The Health Department Finally Closed my Legs

My pussy is a cheap plastic shopping bag on the interstate, kicked up by some tires and passed down to the next car.

The cars are taking turns with me as I smack into each windshield, billow back and let the next one have at me.

My pussy is a discarded piece of watermelon on a hot summer day, juicy and pink with one corner covered in dirt.

The ants are forming a line from both sides to come and get some, telling the others where to find me splayed on the ground.

My pussy is a rack of old tires at Wal-Mart, worn out rubbers with the steel bands exposed in lieu of the original tread.

Wal-Mart can’t beat my “four for the price of none” sale, but I’ll have to admit I can’t offer you that much traction:

My heart is an old broken bar piano that only knows one Liberace song, my prostate is like a drop kicked water balloon.

I dribble like June Allyson and I pee when I sneeze, the health department graded me a D- and finally closed my legs.


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