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I don't have time to suck you off.
There are poems to be written.
I've got a few pieces in here and the
tissue paper isn't thick enough.

Use my thighs like a table cloth
writing about cute white boys, the bubble-butts
of frat boys. I'm not interested in getting
fucked in the ass when there are poems
on toilet stalls that are going to make me famous,

get me into Hollywood parties. I'm gonna be a gay icon.
I don't have time for this right now. You gotta nice
dick dude but I'm composing masterpieces at the moment.

I have barefooted, blond haired sonnets to bring into
this world. Trying to scratch blue inked love poems
on my hand before I forget all the good lines.

I wish I could stay longer.
I wish I had time to fuck your face, taste the 
sweetness of your semen, shove finger in pink bumhole,
slurp your ass like the meat from an oyster's shell, but
these need to be typed and submitted to the proper
magazines and on-line journals.

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