Late Summer

"Late summer has a look that's slightly worn."
I tell her as I wear her slowly down:
"Look at yourself, slut. See how you are torn."
"I'm not." "Oh, yes, you are." My angry frown
Is used, when tearing her blouse down the front
Having buttons pop and fly and scatter,
It's a technique I've built just for this cunt,
Who'd dare to disagree, as if the matter
That this bitch would address is of concern
To me. It doesn't count and nor does she.
The fact that this is so makes her cheeks burn
Before I touch her - the humility
With which my cunt greets summer (luster faded)
Matches her thoughts, so wickedly degraded.