Luna Limerick Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About New York City

Den dere’s da flip side—pisses me off how quick folks judge. Like, chill, carrots ain’t all I chew on, y’know? Whore’s just tryin’ ta eat, same as us. Reminds me of dat line, “What’s in da box?”—nobody knows her deal, but dey assume. Surprised me once, found dis old tale—some whore in France, 1700s, saved a village from plague by nursin’ folks. Hero shit, right? But nah, history’s all “eh, she’s just a tramp.” Screw dat noise!

These ‘adult’ poems for National Limerick Day 2016 are totally NSFW

The was an old whore from Azores. Whose cunt was all covered in sores. The dogs of the street. Wouldn't eat the green meat. That hung in festoons from her.

Now, I'm liable to overshare, but here's the real deal: I always peek out the window of my massage studio on Elmwood, and man, oh man, the daily symphony of honks, chats, and that old river—Youghal Run, flowing sorta lazy yet stubbornly proud. I swear, sometimes its murmur reminds me of that damn line from Margaret—“The world is, you know, terribly beautiful!” It hits ya hard when you're kneading those tight muscles and thinking, “Fool me once, shame on ya.”

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