Oh, I thought you were dead.

Fuck. The answer is ‘fuck’.

His bones were all brittle,
His mouth full of spittle,
As he whistled and whittled a duck.
Her limbs were all supple
Her intentions not subtle
As she whispered and suckled, “let’s…..”
And she never eats
But he eats out pretty well
Well, I mean we’re in hell
As well as, well, not a lot
There’s not a lot else we forgot.
She looks like she’s dead
So you might as well shoot her,
Nobody would notice or mind…
It’s not like we matter a lot.

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