hand it to her

cross my heart, ‘tis the truth
summers ago, in my youth
I saw a really fat bitch
reaching out for an itch
she was acres of droopy skin
sewed over a municipal bin
her pupils shut in reverie
her hand extended in glee
her stubby finger stabbed
at some crevice in the flab
back and forth, to and fro
her painted nails did grope
like a pet at a door latched
her fingers barked and scratched
was it her front, or was it behind
my sleuth eyes could not find
her nose grunted, her body heaved
oh why and woe, that I perceived
I gasped, I choked, I wish I’d died
as I saw her elbow slip inside

ram cobain