Here, I am the tender,
the ginger, the deviant fox,
though now I am less a sage
than a drunk,
drunk on the lotus,
the stuff of Morpheus,
the stunted, though forever-hunted crop.

Inebriated, though I may be,
I tender over my hinds for you,
my muscular, downy treasure
for you to hide, to burrow under.

Trust me. Follow my tail.
Don’t dig in. Don’t quit the trail.
Take heart. Hold faith.
Plunge here. Circumvent hunger.
Hold on for dear
onto that nervous, rabbit-steak


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