Comes artless the mustard

Doesn't walk too well
toward the sunset over her brownstone
now owned by the bank.
Like an old Jew
running swift by the swift,
from the Zyklon B to a seedy Naciremic
the mother turns bulemic another clinic fee.
   Oh goodness, turn, mimic and affect me
a rat to eat, a rye from a fedexing shrink,
a pullover to protect me from the wedding ring.
Her dresses don't fit.
What does the baby: gnaw on pipe and her husband's things.
Bangs the table and Mussolini sings
do the fashionable thing and someone'll paint you!
The baby's home stinks.
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~ by Jeremy on April 1, 2009.

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