My Russian Bride
My Russian Bride
This morning, once again,
I am awake to find that
my Russian Bride is calling.
Perhaps I should really
consider reversing my aging,
reduce all of my wrinkling.
It might just be time to let
The Doctor of Oz and the
mysterious Garcinia Cambogia
melt away my belly fat.
When we finally meet,
I have to remember to ask
my new Russian bride just how
she feels about my drilling her
in bed with powerful thrusts,
from over-sized love muscles.
There will be no need for
panic attacks any longer.
It can wait until after I get
down to the bank to see if the
million and a half USD wire-transfer,
from Mr. Mahammad Najib’s account
in the Central Nigerian Bank has cleared.
I can only hope so.
But what if I have dangerous parasites?
I need to stop snoring.
I have dreams of my Russian Bride and me,
buying a foreclosed home and having
our garage floor sealed once and for all.
I would order her Genie Zip Bras,
just as many as she desires,
get her ink and toner by the case.
We will spend our long e-nights
making love and reading our
free credit reports online, we’ll
discover the addresses of all the
child predators on our block.
Together, my Russian bride and me,
we would boost our metabolism,
cure our herpes and hemorroids.
We will let Pimsleur teach us to speak
in an Indian dialect known for passion.
Of course, we will let them
use lasers to cure our toenail fungus.
Wherever they have been lost on us,
Bosley will give us new hairs, one at a time.
We will refinance again and again,
to prepare for the coming collapses.
We might even finally admit to
paying too much for cable, from the
warmth of Pat Boone’s walk in tub.
And we will live in love and wonder if,
Twenty bucks for an oil change seems
entirely too good to be true.
2014 Daniel Thomas Moran