the fruit is hanging so low
it's practically rotting
the wine in this bottle is plotting
an escape into my mouth

kiss me and let's travel south
where the choir boys are fair game
and there's not post-sex shame
in drooling, sweating on a dirty blanket

i met a bartender who i've seen naked
and still i can't get a god damn drink
what kind of woman doesn't double as a shrink
and cuddle after she tires herself of screaming

there is no point to this poem
god i wish it was a joke
i think i'll take back the facebook poke
as the ultimate symbol of affection