Its nothing but blood, old friend.
Skin, tight and dry,
cracking and being soothed.
No addiction, my jumpy friend.
No addiction.
And tonight the biceps are more full
with a throb in the Achilles.
And the fat, skimmed away,
and equal in its loss to the wearing
of the saddled bottom, isn't missed.
More tea, and a steam-shower.
And sleep.
And dream.
And wake.
If it were my eyes,
I'd of looked elsewhere too.
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