Management Board
Mrs Enter: “All hope abandon,
ye who enter Ted’s studio
to break Ted’s heart,
the heart of (the) stone(d).”
Mrs Escape, the key broad, er, member
of the management board
(and a real hooker, er, real-looker),
is real gone.
Mrs Function returns to her vomit:
“Take on board my fifth idea: Adjust
brightness of dim-inishing returns.”
Mrs Alternative goes overboard:
Her alter ego boards up Ted’s balcony doors
from the outside: “Grr!”
Mrs Printscreen slips out of her panties;
the small print in her pubic area is
finally on Ted’s radar screen:
That the real blue screen of death
is the death of the Sunday afternoon blue sky
is as clear as the grey sky.
Mrs Delete’s blue ink is indelible, too,
but the solar eclipse is illegible
on a bad pubic hair Sunday. “Sorry!”
Mrs Control ain’t no birth control freak,
cannot spin Ted’s sperm cells out of her oviducts,
and does not oppose herself.
No seismic shift: Mrs Shift is sticking to Ted’s stiff stick shift.
Suddenly, the musical chairwoman shifts her ground:
“Put Mrs Space between us.”
Ted starts shifting the deckchairs on the Titanic,
and just when the shit cannot get any more real . . .
Mrs Shift starts looking into Mrs Space shifting for herself.
If Mrs Home has done her homework,
she would have realized that
Ted is home free
and cannot go home again.
Mrs Gear stands for anything
Ted wants her to stand for;
Mrs Asterisk, her twin sister, too:
“Let’s score some f**king gear!”
Mrs Caps unlocks her strongbox
and frees some cap space
by releasing the waste of space
she calls every short schlong.
No Mrs End’s immense boobs in sight
is just a means to an end:
A fresh start for Ted’s start-up
in the last stages of its operations.
1–1700 | Threadbare (1601–1700) | subscribe
