Someone’s work

Running late

Love is like you, love is like you
To be arranged,
To modify us
(Roodborstje tussen de besneeuwde takken)

Running late what’s even a medieval measure?
Mwah I am sure they weren’t always so eager!
Rubens drew a knob on an equal-sized bed,
A lady with a yarned toe wakes-up from lover,
with her husband under cover.

Men with lice are considered the healthiest and
strike after flowers for consumation, fueled with
bendy richness, while they kill swines and hover
them around their shoulders to arrive at the farm
where the lady skins the animal.

They pinch her in the cheeck, and smack her buttoms
And at night she goes out, leaves behind the toilet
to arrive stark naked at a place called Lionsgate.
She wacks’ her tail intentionally like a clock, yet
she continiously loses every track possibly made

A little further he wonders; lice move and cling,
and then he saw right at that moment,
what he dreamed of years ago. Never said the thing,
Ever yours said the thing. Striking him like a capsule
How could he be a fool? His tears were sand,
And caught in our movements.