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Prehistoric
Love, she said,
Is a load of bullshit,
Poets can write what
They want to write,
Singers can sing and
Moan all day long,
But the facts remain,
It’s simply a pre-historic
Drive, the need to breed
Veiled in thoughts, those
Quirky conceptions of
What you would like me
To be, pretend what you see.
So you’re celibate?
Hell no!
I’m as pre-historic as anyone
And it’s the best massage.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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