Dusty Spring
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It smells of dusty spring,
We ponder the pine cones.
Without vitamins, barely, barely
We drag ourselves to skinny sex.
Resembles a limp carrot
My once blazing torch.
In winter, it spent its reserve of strength,
Poorly capable of love.
All members are limp and weak,
They lack carotene,
But there is no quarantine for passion.
We are slaves to cruel circumstances,
Like sleepy flies we wander
Into each other's flimsy embraces,
Without ceremony and without fear
We make timid vows.
We swear to get aroused again,
To become more brutal and healthier,
But the cross dangles on the neck,
The eyebrow twitches nervously.
It smelled of dusty spring,
The janitors sighed more calmly...
The tempo of frictions became relentless,
It wakes you and me in the morning.
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