By Jenny Case
Please sir accept my fruit basket
Please of it before it rots
In return kindly grant her a favor
Bury our breathing flesh
Lock them in a steam chamber
As you digest your
Well-nourished motherly love
Smell our armpits can you take it
We fake it when we make it
Preaching to all my aborted children
Like they can hear me, what a fool
Their ears stuffed with thick dough