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Off in the woods,
I enountered some lovely soft goods.
My blood rushed, it coursed,
For rigor mortis had not yet descended upon the corpse.
As her cold, dead legs
Were opening and closin',
All I could think was,
"I can't believe that I'm the lucky bastard she has chosen."
About the Creator
Brent Tharp
I edit STEM books. I like writing, cats, and wine, though not necessarily in that order.
I was raised by wolves in a small forest somewhere in Middle America.
Why don't ketchup bottles squirt correctly? All or nothing seems grifty to me.
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