DO I STUTTER?

The purpose of my ritual farce, 
To squeeze your cancer into jars.
We talk like Russians overposed,
Smelling the fish of our panty hose.

Running through our lyrical jungle
See if we can disentangle,
Your rotting sense of transexual fear,
Take his dress of you can jeer,

At Nature's reductio ad absurdum,
Girls are girls and men are mum.
She shocks you by her latest confession, 
She loves to bathe in Blue Cheese Dressing.

Stop!

Shut your trap, you've got the clap,
The crabs inside your legs are trapped.
They eat you up like caviar,
Then they call you Al Jabbar.

Clip your nose hair you can scare
A missile launching cowboy freak from Yale.
Mail your doudie to my mother, she needs corn to eat, 
Amplify your chicken pot pie, my sister won't eat meat.
I want some wheat.

You can tell that I've been nowhere
As I sit inside my anonymity,
You just don't know Siberian girls,
They like to squeeze my tushi.

Calculate the odds of reconvening in a gutter, 
Tripping over dapper kisses,
Tell me do I stutter?

{POETRY}