A Pleonastically Ambaginous Pasquil
I would love to
Smellfungicidally trap
Your never-ending staccato bursts
Of machine-gun cynicism,
And scorify it to ebon slag
(and laminate this)
In the concavity beneath the junction
Of your arm and shoulder.
But, I am fearful that if I
Execute this fancy,
My olfactories will be dragooned
By an incessant stream
Of the mephitically olent fumes
That will interminably
Debouch from the dungeons
Of your armpits.
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