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Poems
The Linguist
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

The Linguist

I knew a cunning linguist
he'd go each Friday to get pissed.
Once on a Saturday he licked
a tiny glandula that ticked.
He liked the taste much more than beer
and thought of placing his left ear
upon the pulse that time forgot
his ear, needless to say, got hot.
And then the linguist heard words,
the sound of pink, exotic birds.
Deep into trance he fell and dreamed
of velvet caves and lightly creamed
small passages of rights and lure
he eagerly commenced a tour
and, due to slippery conditions
he dropped his youthful inhibitions
and slid with ease, a connoisseur,
deep into moist and sweet liqueur,
a new experience it was,
one followed instinct and old laws,
The cunning linguist stayed in
and wore forever a big grin.

Note: The pronunciation of liqueur and connoisseur is left
entirely up to the reader.

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