THIGHS OF LILIAN GISH

Can I live up to the tormentor?
And dump upon what heaven sent her?
So that should we decide to mate and enter, 
I'd buy you half of Lincoln Center.

Rock me in the torpid zone,
that stains the brain,
and breaks the bone,

You can be sure that I'll remain pure,
Like a tongue immersede in acetone.

Your porcelain tortoise bowl stinks of fish, 
From the reek of the thighs of Lilian Gish.

{POETRY}