I write this from my lover’s
unmade bed,
far from her paddocks and gymkhanas.
She dresses me in hunting pinks, asks
me to spank her with her daddy’s crop
before handing me a novel, sighing,
saying Why can’t you be more like him?
far from her paddocks and gymkhanas.
She dresses me in hunting pinks, asks
me to spank her with her daddy’s crop
before handing me a novel, sighing,
saying Why can’t you be more like him?

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