Dear Anne, Me and My Glock will gladly be your husband. I simply cannot wait for a clean house and open ears/legs to timidly accept all my various Taxonomies and Fart Jokes. However hence you must promise me with all your little mooing hormones that you will not fall into despair at my polygamy. It is necessary and forthright. I already have three wives, two of which are fine lady poets, not weepy bitches.

O let the willows sing like rigidly-defined affinities. Love me, Anne Boyer.

PS Please inform me of your decision via beeper. I will be waiting in my pants pants pants with a healthy and natural confidence.

White Male Poet


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