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The rave(n)
| Ah, distinctly I was not sober given it was in the mid October;
And each separate fleeing member left their stuff upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished for tomorrow;—with hangover instead of sorrow
From my many sources of sinning —sinning for traps and nothing more—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom such backside had no contest—
Won't have contest, evermore.
| Presently my lust grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or femboy even, truly I beg you stay some more;
But the fact is I was tripping, and so gently you came smirking,
And so flirty you came walking, locking up my soundless door,
That I swear I know I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Police there and nothing more.
| Deep into that agent glaring, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
tripping, seeing things no mortal ever dared to even think before;
But the silence was unbroken, and his flashlight gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the shouted obligation, “Papers, sir”
This man demanded, accompanied by two citations, “Loud music, and fleeting whores”—
Merely this and nothing more.
| Open here I swung the fucker, when, with many a miss and stumble,
In there tripped my wasted person with no sense of pride nor humble;
Not the least movement made he; not an inch he stepped or ran he;
But, with thoughts of trap or femboy, maybe still behind my door—
Perched upon a throne of panties deep inside my broken head—
sat, and spread, and nothing else.
| This I laid there merely passing, but no signs of clear trespassing
From the agent whose fiery eyes now burned deep with pity stalling;
This and more I laid there thinking, with my head just merely splitting
On the cushion’s velvet lining that by inches I just missed,
But whose velvet-violet lining should I miss next time I fall,
Will he arrest me? I don't know!
| And this agent, never blinking, still is thinking, still is thinking
On the other sources of income that he also could have chose;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a man whose soul is missing,
And the red blue-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on my corpse;
And my soul from out that shadow that lives flipping off his job
Shall be arrested—nevermore!
| This raven dp be ravin' tho
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| Once upon a midnight merry, while I pounded, slick and ready,
Over many a tight and curious volumes of a trap galore—
While I nodded, nearly passing, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, tapping at my soundproof door.
“’Dis some agent,” he just whispered, “looking for this trap galore—
Only this and hope no more.”