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Polka-Dot Hours

Lemons and flowers
and polka-dot hours,
splashin by the mirrorsill.
Plenty of cunts
and time to kill.
Removing your balls
while you pay the bill.
They raise the skirts high,
releasing a thigh.
It's only the whiskey you drink
that let's them
pass by.
For now.
	Another one come,
another gone.
Counting the women like days
on 3 month paper calendars.