Asexual

Everything is a carbon copy Squeezing-out of the original Take that Brunet, transsexual, Nonchalantly-surveying, but genial All fur coat and no knickers so trashy. Longing to be a female Might as well of be born an Airedale Such legs as hers were meant to be female. Such analytical tales of a tawdry life: Could only come from; a misused, housewife. If ever she were to become a genuine angel. Wouldn't she then wish to be a male? Every spore in every cell with less regale Of cause we were all once asexual: So to be without sin; truly is to be original.