I took a picture of yer twat
and showed it to this friend I’ve got
who owns a beer and whiskey joint that doesn’t do much business.
He said “This twat is so angelic,
so fucking different from the relic
that my skank ol’ lady sports that never incites jizzness.”
He then went really overboard
and said, “This is now my holy lord,
for I shall pray to this smooth shaven cunt that even Great Athena
who in her twatted goddess glory
could fit all her fans inside a lorry.
Yet THIS pussy’s cock-inciting majesty could fill a million-seat arena.”
He then began to lick the photo
like a Transformer would lick a hot Desoto
and I told him of my plan of how your twat could save his bar:
I said a painting of this taco
would drive a pirate batshit stark-o
to where to lick your pussy, he’d give up saying arr-arr-arrr.
And so the painting was commissioned.
Your pussy was in fact renditioned
even more erotically-enticing than it was before:
One lab was on the swing-door’s left,
one lab was on the swing-door’s right,
when closed the swinging doors presented the thing that God made boners for.
Cuz your goddess pussy was what greeted
everyone, as yet unseated,
who pressed their palms against your twattage spreading it apart.
And thus, they’d walk inside the bar,
the swinging doors no more ajar,
and your pussy once more closed – and earth’s greatest work of art,
both on the doors of a saloon,
or there between your legs as poon,
two mounds of painted twattage came together nice and tight,
to await once more the next arrival
to place his hands on your Godival
naked crotch and march inside and drink-away the night.
And having touched your painted crotch
he’d never use the word “be-yotch”
to ever reference pussy-owners even once again.
For he would be transformed in soul
just having touched your painted hole.
He’d see that women truly are more powerful than Zen.
He’d say “I’ve touched a magic painting
of the perfect twat, I’m almost fainting!”
For the power of your sacred slit is what makes the sun arise
and fills with blood the dongs of men
and even women now and then
are not immune to all the beauty that is there within your thighs.
I think it goes without my saying…
that business boomed. A flood of paying
customers were putting anxious palms against your swinging labs:
caressing them before they entered,
on each lab each hand was centered,
then spread your painted pussy so’s to run-up new bar tabs.
Business soon was over flowing.
Tons of dough all the folks were blowing,
drawn inside because they had to palm your painted pussy flesh.
The line was long from night to noon,
and could have stretched up to the moon
and back again to earth from the saloon to Bangladesh.
Men and boys were educated
on the beauties of x-rated
natural wonders that surpassed the wonders of the stars.
They placed their palms upon your taco
painted in paints from Monaco:
secret ancient formulaic paints with magic fraught
that all the secret ceremonies
that all the gods and all their cronies
swore to hide from Mankind lest they paint the perfect twat.
But, behold, your twat was painted
wondrous, perfect, holy, sainted,
filling men and gals alike with a very urgent need to lick
the seam between the two filled mounds
of taco flesh that each surrounds
the enclosed crevice of the sacred slit that every dick
and every tongue and fingered hand
of every person in the land
would seek to be the next in line to touch your painted twat
and wonder in a great frustration
“Oh to stand in masturbation
while staring at the living version of this painted slot!”
And thus, the crowds at the saloon
that lasted from July to June
all sought to push your painted pussy open as they entered.
For happiness passed through their hands
and ignited lust inside their glands
just touching on the doors on which your painted twat was centered.
They felt as though they’d be inside
with their whole bodies, thin or wide,
sheltered now, in fact, inside the very pussy of your groin.
In fact, the wise old owner Barney,
who I think came from Kilarny,
got himself a bright idea to make some added coin:
“I’ll paint the inside of my bar
a gentle Pussy-Pink as far
as to the distant wall that is the back of my saloon.
IN FACT, I’ll just re-architect
the entire building and resurrect
a whole new shape that will be the inside of a ripe poon:
the very poon on my bar’s doors
that ‘holy’ men, and ‘unholy’ whores –
inhabitants of every kind that walk upon this very earth –
will be pushing past to get in here.
I’ll turn the place where I sell beer
into a replication of my door-twat’s very birth
canal: my bar shall be a tube,
replicating maybe even with twattage lube
the inner tunnel of the very twat upon my doors.
My bar shall be a long vagina
in pastel pink like silk from China
that will be hailed in cheers of praise crescendoing in roars
of happiness and shouts of, “What
a thrill to be inside the twat
that did entice us when we saw the painting on the doors!”
Your pussy will be magnified
to all who proceed full-inside
into your sacred tunnel! That I’ve often dreamed of fucking.
And he added, “We’ll be drinking
and our glasses will be clinking
in the very fucking chamber where the jizz begins its journey
on its way to launch conception
in the egg of its reception
to make new customers to one day end up on a fucking gurney!!”
And so, it was he turned his dive
into your pussy – all did thrive
within this new addition to your pussy’s faux creation:
with holographic spermies swimming
through the crowds of men and womming:
holographic faux-wet pussy lubeage falling on libation-
frenzied joy and carnal lustings…..
men and womens’ loinage thrustings…..
in air-humping frenzies with raised skirts and open flies.
All this in your crotch arena
of orgasmic fire – poor Athena…..
she would envy all the people coming, moaning, in your thighs.
And so….your pussy on the door
and your vagina now the floor
and also, now the walls and ceiling and a long wide corridor
with holographic virtual semen
wriggling past like little he-men
and with holographic glycerin dripping down onto the crowd,
you were the center of the world,
your pussy magic was unfurled,
and in your wondrous cunny only happiness was allowed.
Your cooter was the only place
on earth and all of outer space
where things made sense in the immense-ity of horror on this planet.
Yes, your pussy’s inner sanctum
which the gods made, and we sure thanked ‘em,
was a bless’t escape from shit that spews from human heads of granite.
This bar was now made sanctified
for the sober and the fried
to party in safe happiness from the assholes on this rock
that goes around in circles endlessly,
a giant orb on which we pee,
but your twat gives actual joy to every cunt and every cock.
Your pussy is the one safe haven
from the dregs and slime and all the craven
monsters that surround us and the shit that they employ.
But we can shelter in this saloon
that’s been turned into your sacred poon
and here inside your seam the sane find happiness and joy.
–Burma Shave.
