On the first day of the week I dated Nat
She recited Sylvia Plath and said I’m hot as hell
I told her fucking is a form of art,
At which I truly do excel
But though I let her feel me up
All I gave her was a kiss
On the second day of the week I dated Kay
Who thought I’d be Rimbaud to his Verlaine
I told him a season in Hell might still be ok
If it was filled with hung and horny men
But though I let him feel me up
All I gave him was a kiss
On the third day of the week, in classic goth chick fashion
Annie quoted Poe, though a lesser piece called Silence
I told her like poetry, fucking is a passion
And passions should be held in reverence
But though I let her feel me up
All I gave her was a kiss
On the fourth day of the week, Nat said I was even hotter
But I think she’d still be blabbering on about Keats
if I hadn’t said write his name in water –
Forget Hyperion and suck on my tits
But though I fingered her wet cunt
La belle dame sans merci did not do the same for me
On day five I got black flowers, and I could tell
Kay didn’t think too hard for this Baudelairean innuendo
But I said why wait for Don Juan in Hell
And not just go for the crescendo?
Still, though I sucked his cock inside the car
It was my only hole that he deemed fit to fuck
On day six, Annie and I delved into Trakl
Whose poems do not exactly spell romance
So she said fuck it, undid her belt buckle
And fed me the final gold of long-dead suns
But though I drank it, like a blue dove from a crystal pond
All she gave me was a promise
On day seven, I got my schedule fumbled
And found them all together, with questions aimed my way
So I said, I don’t know why you all look so grumbled –
I got nothing, though I gave it all away
So you either fuck me all together, or go and eat a shit
Which I presume is exactly what they went on to do
