Vievee Francis

Shiraishi called upon the great sky cock, wanted an explanation, wondered, why the echo of form without the wisdom, why the bent wit without the timing. Wondered, as I have, how a man, bare upon the bed may rise as if in praise but fail to be grateful for the gift at hand. O dick of questionable devise. O schlong of longing, as present but ultimately unknowable as your maker, I would worship at the fount if I had more faith, if I knew your weeping eye was on me alone.