there's nothing to write about anymore
i'm not inspired; i'm tired; i'm bored
i'm sure, by the time i fill up these lines
my mind's gonna be wanting more
confronting allure, for an encore
presenting, unintentionally, a new bundle of joy
questioning, why i'm exceptional, that's questionable
it's the canvas that demands this
like shorty, impatiently waiting to tell me her story
after accessing, that i'm not corny
i'm the guy, she wants to hear say good night, then good morning
when she opens her eyes
realizing it's my whiskers whispering
something significant, somewhere near her thighs
mister, full of surprises, pulling Clydesdales out of a hat
cause she told me, she wanted my little pony
& i replied, why, when i can do better than that
better than him, better than them
so you won't have to want, for whatever you want, ever again
bundle of joy
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