sublimation

The sadoo is faintly embarrassed by its earlier post, the one on politics.  Not that it isn't embarrassed by its other earlier posts.  But, as frank zappa sang, what's embarrassing yesterday is lunch tomorrow.

To compensate--though there's no such thing as compensation--he offers a little titty ditty recently found inside a turtle's stomach in the titanic by dr. herbefa h. h. h. permalink, rabelais scholar, of the university of ridgely's delight at cylburn.  Dr. h. h. h. permalink, in her article "rabelais and the turtle under the sea:  rhetoric and fornication as parallels to freud and testudines" in bawdy studies (254:IX), claims that the poem ("sublimation") is a lost fragment from rabelais' seminal work, gargantua and pantagruel.  (Her claim has been hotly disputed by rabelais scholars around the world.) Written in greek, french, and latin, the poem was translated by iffy f♨üüf, one of dr. h. h. h. permalink's doctoral students.

sublimation

Take off thy mask, my slutty lass,

And slip your yoni hither.

Time is not time unless we join

Our genitals together.

I saw you winking yesterday

At that big cheese called Ingram.

But come instead inside my bed

And lick my meaty lingam.

What are skirts for but lifting up

And tossing panties yonder?

Your clam awaits, basting, baked,

For my hungry salamander.

Your titties aren’t for tots to suck

Or be jailed in a pricey teddy,

But to bounce unhindered, wantonly,

As you ride my stick and hump me.

Yet. There you are. Masked, aloof,

Like Sheba in her gloaming.

And here I am, hard as Zeus,

Doomed to fuck by writing.